


One Life To Live

by Kris22



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Chance You Didn't Take - Ronja
Genre: F/M, Post Mockingjay
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-21
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:53:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 81,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26579407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kris22/pseuds/Kris22
Summary: Katniss has had enough and gives Peeta an ultimatum.  Picks up from where Peeta tells her she can no longer to visit his home at night as comfort from nightmares.
Relationships: Katniss Everdeen/Peeta Mellark, Katniss Everdeen/other, Peeta Mellark/other
Comments: 174
Kudos: 147





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fanfic of "The Chance You Didn't Take" by Ronja which is a fanfic of "The Hunger Games" by Suzanne Collins  
> "The Chance You Didn't Take" can be found on AO3 and it's recommended that you read it first for full context. It's also a great read.
> 
> This is a brief synopsis up to where this story diverges from "The Chance You Didn't Take". Peeta has returned to District 12 from the Capitol. He has incomplete memories of his former life and those involving Katniss are either distorted or missing. He has an awareness that he once loved her, but he doesn't remember what it felt like. He also believes that she had never loved him and never would. He tells Katniss that he's no longer in love with her and considers her a good friend. Katniss wants him to work on regaining his memories but Peeta doesn't want that. He only wants to make new, happy memories. Katniss (at Peeta's suggestion) sometimes uses his guest room at night for comfort from nightmares. Peeta becomes infatuated with Lace Bomul, a seamstress from District 8. Peeta takes Katniss out for an ice-cream before telling her doesn't want her to come over at night anymore. He wants to be a good boyfriend to Lace. 
> 
> I want to thank Ronja for generously allowing me to write fanfic of "The Chance You Didn't Take". She's a brilliant writer and you should check out all her fics, also on AO3.  
> I also want to thank Loueze for her encouragement and support.

_“Katniss I . . . hope you know that no matter what happens you will always be a very important person in my life.” ___

__A very important person. No matter what happens._ _

__And that’s how Peeta broke the news that I wasn’t welcome in his house at night anymore. An invitation rescinded. A comfort denied. For Lace. A more important person than me, apparently._ _

__And the added cruelty of taking me out walking first, our arms linked like any courting couple. To be treated at the ice-cream parlour with a triple scoop of ice-cream, and to sit together, just the two of us, in the middle of a grassy field in the warm sunshine. It wasn’t a date, of course. But I could almost imagine it as one. And then . . ._ _

__I ball my fists into my eyes to prevent a fresh flood of tears. Feeling sorry for myself won’t help. I have to face reality. I’m no longer Peeta’s priority. Another girl is. Peeta has made his choice - when it came down to protecting Lace or me, he chose Lace. I can’t keep telling myself the situation will change, and that Peeta will one day want me again. With every day that passes he seems further and further out of reach._ _

__I don’t know what I should do. I thought the romance with Lace was temporary and he’ll soon come back to me. That seems more remote than ever. Hopeless, even._ _

__I go to the bathroom to splash my face with cold water. What looks back at me from the bathroom mirror is splotchy and swollen with crying. My hair is disheveled, the braid half undone, the end thin and scraggly. When was the last time I had a haircut? I can’t even remember. Maybe it’s no wonder that Peeta has turned to another. The girl Peeta loved, the girl he called beautiful, is almost unrecognisable. Too thin, dull hair, covered in burn scars. Plain. Ugly, even. Perhaps he views me as a charity case and that’s why he came back to 12. Fatten the girl up with cheese buns. Let her sleep in the guest room as comfort from nightmares. Build her up. Tell her how important she is. Until someone more important comes along, that is._ _

__I wish I had someone to talk to. A shoulder to cry on, at least. I so miss Prim. There’s only Haymitch and he’s of no use. The only other person I’m close to is Peeta. I haven’t bothered trying to form new friendships. Perhaps that’s half my problem. I’ve come to rely too much on someone who has proven to be unreliable and there’s nowhere else to turn. I can’t blame Peeta for that. Only me._ _

__The lights are on in Peeta’s sitting room. I can see them from my bedroom window. Peeta uses the back half of the house if he’s alone at night. He most likely has a visitor then. Lace, probably. I have some things to say to him but it’s clearly not the right time. He can come to me, anyway._ _

__It’s late in the afternoon when I get a visit from him. I don’t know if he tried earlier; I spent most of the day in the woods trying to unravel all the conflicting emotions I have about him. There’s my love for the boy that was. My love for the boy that is. And my ever-growing anger and frustration with him. Sometimes I think I actually dislike him. On top of that is overwhelming guilt for what he suffered at Snow’s hands because of me. But for the first time I question how that helps Peeta. I let him get away with things he shouldn’t. I stop myself from saying anything that might upset the false façade he’s made for himself. Maybe I’ve been doing this all wrong._ _

__Typical of Peeta, he comes bearing gifts. He does this whenever he thinks I might be mad at him, or about to be mad at him. Yesterday it was ice-cream. Today it seems to be a bag of cookies and a parcel wrapped in brown paper. It’s a large flat square that’s almost certainly a canvas. It’s probably the painting of a primrose I asked for._ _

__The smile he gives me is hesitant, apprehensive. I guess the way I ran out on him, threatening not to come over for dinner anymore, may have given the impression that he might not be welcome._ _

__He follows me into the kitchen and I go through the motion of putting the kettle on for tea. Not that I plan of this being a long conversation._ _

__Peeta puts the parcel down and places the bag of cookies on the kitchen bench just behind me. He stands so close, we’re almost touching._ _

__“Are these to compensate me for not being able to stay over anymore?” I ask._ _

__“They’re to show how much I care for you,” he says, as he leans down to kiss my cheek. “I don’t think you realise how much. I was worried sick when you didn’t come home the other night, not knowing where you were or if you were lying injured somewhere. If anything were to happen to you . . . He trails off and gives his head a shake. “I don’t even like to think about it.”_ _

__“I’m sure Lace will be a great comfort if that should happen.” I train my eyes on the sleeve of his jacket. There’s not enough space between us to look down at the floor. I know I sound bitter and jealous and as much as I dread being exposed and vulnerable, at the same time I want him to notice – to actually see me for once and why I’m hurting._ _

__He cups my jaw and turns my face back to his. His thumb gently strokes my cheek. “I know this must seem like I’m neglecting you and Haymitch in favour of Lace, but it’s really not like that. It’s just that I have to consider Lace now. There are aspects of my life where she has to come first. I want to be a good friend to you, but I also need to be a good boyfriend to Lace. We had a very public romance, and I have to think about how you coming over at night would look to others, even if it is perfectly innocent. This doesn’t make you any less important to me.”_ _

__Yes, it does, I remind myself. But his voice is soothing and placating, his caresses lover-like. I want to drift in it, believe that somewhere down deep, he’s still in love with me._ _

__“I’ll still be here for you,” he goes on. “You can call me anytime of the day or night if you have a nightmare and want to talk. Anytime at all.”_ _

__I say nothing to this. That won’t happen. I do have some pride._ _

__A tendril of hair is tucked tenderly behind my ear. I gaze into his eyes, mesmerised by his voice, and his touch. He’d only have to bend his head, or for me to raise myself on tiptoe for our lips to meet. Why doesn’t he just kiss me? “Please understand,” he says. “You’re not just a friend. We may be platonic now, but I know I must have been overwhelmingly in love with you.”_ _

__“You were,” I say softly. “I don’t think I’ll ever be loved like that again.”_ _

__His hand comes to rest on my cheek again. “I hope that you will, and it will the kind of love where you both feel the same way about each other. As for me, I care so much about you but I have to put Lace first.”_ _

__He doesn’t mean to be cruel, but he is. How can he touch me like this while at the same time express his preference for Lace and so casually give me over to another? It’s as if the hijacked version of himself is still inside, intent on destroying me anyway he can. And I can’t even heap all the blame on Peeta for this, because I let him do it. But at least it gives me the jolt I need.  
I push his hand aside and slide my back along the bench until I’m free of him. _ _

__“Why did you come back to 12?”_ _

__Peeta is so surprised, it takes a few seconds for him to respond. “What? Um, because . . . Why are you asking? What does it have to do with anything?”_ _

__“A lot, actually,” I say. “It has everything to do with what you want from me. Because frankly, I’m confused. One minute I’m merely a friend and told not to come over at night and the next minute you’re kissing me on the cheek and standing so close, I can’t move an inch without bumping into you. If I were Lace, I’d be more concerned with all this touching you do than a platonic friend using the guest room occasionally.”_ _

__He stares at me, bewildered. I don’t think he’s even been aware that he does it._ _

__“So why did you come back?” I persist. “It can’t be because you’re in love with me. You’re always making sure to tell me that you’re not. It can’t be because I’m a friend because you have no memories of my being one. In fact, you’ve even said you don’t trust me. And it can’t be because you want help getting your memories back, because you want nothing to do with them. So why come to 12? Of all the places you could have gone to, why bombed out 12 with only a depressed recluse and a drunk for company?”_ _

__“Because you were here . . . and Haymitch. And my house,” he flounders. “I can’t explain it. I was just drawn here. And it’s not like I have no memories at all. They’re just a tangled mess I can’t make sense of. All I know is that I feel a deep connection between us and I need to be here. It may not be in love anymore, but I care a great deal for you.”_ _

__There it is again. He cares for me. A lesser form of love. Generic, non-exclusive. It should wound, but at the moment I’m numb to it. More than anything I’m tired. Tired of pretending, tired of holding onto a hope that simply exists to take one blow after another._ _

__“You want to know what it meant to me when you returned to 12? Well, I can’t tell you. Because I’d have to talk about our past, and you’re determined not to know about it. I don’t know what happened between the mission to kill Snow and when you came back here that made you give up the fight. All I know is that that boy had courage. It didn’t matter what horrific memories were dredged up as long as it meant finding himself again. But you don’t want “real” anymore. You just want a pretty picture to live in. Like one of your paintings.” I point to the parcel he brought with him where it leans, still unwrapped, against the wall._ _

__“That’s not fair!” he exclaims. “You have no idea what it is to be me. I didn’t choose to have my memories erased and distorted. I was tortured, Katniss! The little I do remember is bad enough. I don’t see you handling it that well, by the way. Not if you have to run over to my house to sleep in the guest room to escape your nightmares. Or stay in bed until well past noon because you’re too depressed to get up. And then there’s Haymitch, who can’t go a day without a drink. Several, in fact. Why would I want that?”_ _

__Stung, I’m about to retort that I’d rather have nightmares than forget my family, as he’s done, but then recall that his memory loss is more selective than that. He’s blocked out memories of the torture, understandably enough. But he also has no memories of me, other than those which Snow thoughtfully let him keep, such as his jealousy of Gale._ _

__Before I can formulate a response Peeta is at my side, immediately contrite. “I’m sorry I shouldn’t have said that. I had no right. And it’s not as if I don’t have my own problems to deal with. It’s just that if I have a chance to avoid what you and Haymitch go through, I don’t see why I shouldn’t take it.”_ _

__I make one last appeal. “But . . . but you’re also turning your back on the good memories too. They’re all part of who you are. Even the bad ones.”_ _

__Peeta shrugs. “Do you think I don’t know that? All I’m saying is that it doesn’t have to be part of who I am now. Some really awful things have been done to me and I have a choice not to make it part of my future. So why not? If it’s meant to be, the good memories will come back. And if they don’t, well, I can make new ones. Better ones.”_ _

__His answer shouldn’t surprise me. We’ve had this conversation before. And when I offered to help him, he told me he didn’t trust me enough._ _

__My heart sinks. That’s it then. It is hopeless. If he can’t, won’t, remember then I don’t see a way forward for us. He’ll become increasingly attached to Lace, and I’ll be increasingly sidelined. To him, I’ll likely always be a friend, someone he cares for a great deal. But that’s not what I want. He’s not the only one who’s gone through hell and wants to be happy. This isn’t abandoning him, I tell myself. This is setting him free to live his life as he chooses, while I do the same for me._ _

__I take a few more steps away from him, determined to get some physical distance. I don’t want any weakness on my part getting in the way of what I’m resolved to do. “Well, if that’s the way you feel, then we have nothing more to say to each other,” I say in the most resolute voice I can muster._ _

__“What do you mean we have nothing more to say?” he asks warily._ _

__“Exactly what I said. If you have no interest in getting your memories back, then there’s nothing left to say. If you have the right to choose what’s best for you, then I have the right to choose what’s best for me. And continuing as we are with one of us deliberately ignorant about our past together isn’t it.”_ _

__I turn my gaze to the parcel. The parcel that contains a painting of a primrose that I had asked Peeta for in memory of my sister. As much as I want to, I can’t accept it. I feel miserable about it because I know how much work and care was put into it. And love too. Just not the kind of love I want from him. In a way, the painting defines what our relationship has become. It’s a shared memory of a beloved figure, just as the primrose bushes are. But that’s where it ends. And it isn’t enough._ _

__I note how light it is as I pick it up from the floor. And that it’s bordered by a frame, and its solid on one side and hollow on the other. I imagine what’s underneath the wrapping paper. Peeta had shown me the outline he drew. It would now be painted in soft shades of yellow like the primroses that grow at the side of my house. The same primroses that Peeta planted for me on his first day back from the Capitol._ _

__“I can’t accept this,” I say, as I hand it to him. “It isn’t right. I wanted a painting from Peeta Mellark. When he comes back to me, I’ll accept it then.”_ _

__Peeta’s eyes travel from the painting in his hand and back to my face in confusion. “What? What are you talking about? You can’t mean that. Is this because I won’t let you sleep in the guest room? You’re being unreasonable. I know you feel let down, especially since it was me who invited you to in the first place. But what else can I do? What do you think happens when friends become romantically involved with another? That everything stays the same? What if you had a boyfriend? Do you think he’d want me coming over in the middle of the night?”_ _

__“If I had a boyfriend, he’d either have to accept the situation or find someone else. That’s how I feel about us. But this isn’t about that. This is me at breaking point. I’m sick and tired of being a piece in your game.”_ _

__“Game? What game? You’re not making any sense,” he says, growing agitated. Peeta runs a hand through his hair, mussing his curls so that they stand around his head and give him a slightly mad appearance. “Look, if it means so much to you, use the guest room. Use it as often as you like. Move in. I’ll work out something with Lace.”_ _

__“I don’t care about the guest room!” I yell in frustration. “What I care about is that you’ve betrayed everything we’ve been to each other. And you don’t even know it because you’re too much of a coward to find out.”_ _

__He flushes with anger. “Fuck, Katniss!” he shouts. I jump back in surprise. Peeta never swears. And then the parcel is hurled across the room, upsetting Buttercup’s food bowl and spattering cat food over the tiles. “What the fuck do you want from me?”_ _

__“I told you what I want from you! It’s you that needs to find out what you want from me!” But Peeta has turned his back and is almost out of the room. “Let me know when you work it out!” I scream after him. And then I hear the front door slam shut._ _

__I’m too shocked to do anything more than blindly stare at the canvas where it’s come to rest near the back door. After a little while, I come out of my stupor to walk over and pick it up. I don’t think it’s ruined, but it needs some repair work. I can feel that the frame is broken on one side. I remove the wrapping paper. It’s got cat food on it. I resist looking at the actual painting though. I haven’t accepted it until I look at it, I tell myself. I trudge upstairs to Prim’s room where I place it on top of her dresser, the right side facing the wall. And then I sit down on her bed._ _

__Oh, Prim. How did that go so wrong? I don’t think he even heard me. All he could talk about was the guest room as if that’s all there is to it. Do you remember when you told me that the old Peeta, the one who loves me, is still inside? Trying to get back to me? I don’t think he is. I don’t think he even wants to. I’m trying not to give up on him, but it’s so hard. All I can do now is to see if my tactic works. If it fails, I’ve lost him. But I think I might have lost him anyway._ _


	2. Chapter 2

The strangest thing is, that despite this horrible situation, or maybe because of it, for the first time in months I feel energised and ready to take on almost anything. Just as Peeta hasn’t been himself, I haven’t been myself either. The old Katniss would have been doing something, and if not actively pursuing Peeta, would at least have found purpose in other things. Instead, I’ve existed in this state of inertia. And in doing so, I not only didn’t find Peeta, I’ve lost sight of myself too. 

The first thing I want is to find some kind of employment. There’re two reasons for this. The first is a practical one that’s been coming for a while now. And that’s because my game isn’t in demand as it used to be. Meat is both cheaper and readily available now that foodstuffs and other goods are transported between districts. More people are able to afford them too. Somehow squirrel isn’t as appealing if you can have beef or horse on the menu. The other reason is that hunting is a very solitary occupation, especially now that I don’t have a hunting partner. My circle has been too small for too long. 

One good thing about 12 being a high growth area, is that workers are in demand. That means employers aren’t as fussy about qualifications or experience, which is good, because I have neither. So, I’m fairly confident I can find a job, as long as I’m not too picky.

I head for the town, as that’s the most likely place to find one. The town centre has expanded from a ragtag collection of shops to a bustling shopping strip. Civic buildings have been rebuilt, as well as a hospital and a community hall. It grows to look more like the Capitol every day.

I walk straight past the hospital. Sick people, no thanks. The same with the Justice Building. There’re too many bad memories associated with it. It was at a Justice Building that I had to collect the medal of valour for my father’s death, and its where tributes were held before they were transported to the Capitol. I would happily never set foot in one again. Next door is the Council Office, where Haymitch works. That actually has potential. My knowledge of the woods might be useful. But when I apply, they tell me they’re not hiring at the moment. But they take down my details anyway and say they’ll let me know if a position becomes available. 

Across the intersection, there’s a block of five new shops that have just opened. One of them appears to be a tailor as I see sewing machines, bolts of fabric in somber colors, and a few men’s suits on display. Another shop is lined with racks of clothing with a small counter at the rear. I’ve seen shops like these in the Capitol. They sell ready-to-wear fashion. I have a feeling that Lace won’t like it. A tailor and a clothing shop where you don’t have to wait for the clothes to be made will surely be competition, especially the latter. What’s more, it’s probably the first of many. 

Further down the road, I see the new school that started up a few months ago. It’s just two or three classrooms but I’m sure it won’t stay that way for long. Not with the population booming as it is. I move closer, enjoying the sight of children at play in the school grounds. A man, maybe in his mid-twenties with brown hair that flops over his forehead, regards me with interest. Too much interest for my liking. I change direction and turn the corner and encounter even more shops.

But there’s one that takes more than my passing interest and that’s because it has a sign in the window. It says “Inquire within. Staff wanted.” I put my face to the window to determine what kind of business it is. I see glass-enclosed counters with shelves and maybe more shelves behind them. Evidently, it’s some kind of food shop. What, I don’t know. 

A bell jingles as I open the door. And then I go stand near the counter to wait. It appears to be empty but I know someone’s here because I can hear voices and what seems to be furniture being moved around from the rear of the shop. I consider calling out, or perhaps re-entering to make the bell jingle again, when a man appears, wiping his hands on a towel. 

“Hi. Sorry to keep you waiting. We were halfway putting one of the ovens in place. What can I do for you, Miss Everdeen?” he says. He has a bright, cheerful manner about him. 

“Um, you know who I am?” It’s a silly question, as I’m recognised nearly everywhere I go, but I still find it disconcerting. 

“Who doesn’t?” he asks, as he tosses the towel aside. “But we have met before. I doubt that you’d remember it though.”

I take a careful look at him. Early twenties maybe. Blond hair but a different shade from Peeta’s. Golden rather than ashy. And green eyes. Pleasing but unremarkable features. Above medium height and with a similar build as Peeta’s. 

I shake my head. “No, I’m sorry. I don’t. Where did we meet?”

He smiles and the features I thought so unremarkable light up and make him quite attractive. “It was only for a few minutes. Your fiancé might remember me though. I gave him my best frosting techniques.”

Fiancé? That could only be Peeta. And the frosting . . .? Of course! At the feast in the Capitol, when Peeta asked to meet the bakers to ask about the cakes. I take another look around the shop and then everything falls into place. This must be a bakery. And those glass counters are to display cakes and the shelves behind them are for bread. My first thought goes to Peeta. He has vague plans of opening a bakery. He might not like this. But he should have known that one would open eventually. The wonder is that it’s taken so long. 

“I remember now. It was at the feast. On our Victory Tour,” I say, momentarily caught in the memory of Peeta and me as a newly engaged couple. “But Peeta isn’t my fiancé anymore. We didn’t stay together after the war. He’s with another girl now. You might have met her. She owns the dressmaking shop on the main road.” I say it as cheerfully as I can, but it sounds forced even to my own ears. 

He doesn’t seem to notice though. “I haven’t met many people yet,” he tells me. “I only arrived in 12 the day before yesterday. My brother and his wife arrived a couple of months ago to get everything here organised while I stayed in the Capitol to settle up. But I’ve neglected my manners. I know who you are, but I haven’t introduced myself. Cassius Carter. Most people call me Cass.”

He holds out his hand for me to shake. He has large hands and a firm grip. My own looks swallowed up in it.

“Hi. Pleased to meet you, Cass.” 

“Pleased to meet _you _, Katniss,” he replies with a warm smile.__

____

____

We lapse into silence while Cass looks at me expectantly. Oh yes, why am I here? “Um, I came about the sign in the window. You’re looking for staff?”

“We are. To serve customers. You’re interested, I take it?”

“Yes, but I don’t have any experience,” I say regretfully. 

Cass pretends to consider it. “Hmm, that is a problem. It will take at least ten minutes to learn the ropes and I don’t think we’ll have the time. But then a pretty girl behind the counter can’t be bad for business, so it might all even out.” His face clears. “I’ve made up my mind. The job’s yours if you want it.” 

“Oh, good,” I say, thinking more about being described as pretty than the job offer. It’s been so long since anyone complimented me on my appearance. 

I smile at Cass, grateful that there’s at least one person who thinks so. “I’m a fast learner. I’m sure I’ll catch on quickly. When do you want me to start?”

“We’ll be operational by the end of the week, I think. Could you start on Monday? It’s four days a week, Monday to Thursday.”

“That sounds perfect.” That gives me three days a week to pursue other things. 

We spend the next few minutes discussing times and wages and then shake on it.

“You wouldn’t know of a sign writer who needs a job? We haven’t got anyone to do the shop sign yet,” he asks as I’m about to leave.

I shake my head. “No, sorry. But someone’s sure to apply.” I have no intention of passing the news onto Peeta. He can look for his own work. Besides, I’ve made it my policy not to approach him unless I absolutely have to. 

That man with the floppy brown hair is still there when I turn to go back the way I came. Despite my scowl he still has the temerity to approach me. 

“Hey, Mockingjay,” he calls out. “Mind if I have a word?”

“Yes, I do mind,” I snap. “And I’m not the Mockingjay anymore.” I turn away from him but he’s on my heels. 

“I want to talk to you about a teaching position.”

“I’m not a teacher.”

“Not yet. But you’re looking for a job, so why not teaching?

“How would you know I’m looking for a job?”

“I saw you reading the help wanted sign in the bakery window before you entered. It isn’t open yet so you weren’t going in to buy bread.”

“So now you’re spying on me as well as harassing me.” I stop walking and turn to face him. “Look, I don’t know who you are – “

“Max Matson,” he says, holding out his hand. “Teacher at the school you were admiring a short time ago. We’re looking for more teachers, and you could be just what we need.”

I ignore the hand. I’m just about to tell him to get out of my way when I pull myself up. Didn’t I come into town to look for opportunities? What if I don’t like working in a shop and I’m more suited to teaching instead? I can least consider it. 

Max drops his hand, but my hesitation seems to have compensated him for the slight since he doesn’t change expression. 

He hurries to explain before I can object further. “It will only be teaching what you already know. Survival skills, the natural environment, that sort of thing. And it won’t be in the classroom either, but out in the woods. A lot of our kids come from the industrialized districts and hardly know a tree from a chimney stack. You could really make a difference.”

I don’t respond straight away, my gaze directed at the school in the distance. He has the sense to be quiet while I mull it over. It’s only a very small school and surely excursions into the woods won’t be every day. It could fit nicely with the bakery job, and if I find myself suited more to one than the other, then maybe I could switch to full time later on if the opportunity arises and then give the other up. The thought of passing on my knowledge, as my father did for me, appeals to me too. 

“I can only do Fridays.” 

“That’s alright,” he says in a rush. “It’s only part-time at the moment. And it’s only while the weather is warm.”

“OK, I’ll give it a try. A try, mind you. If I don’t like it, I’m not coming back.”

“Great! We’ll see you on Friday then . . .um . . .Katniss? Is that what I call you?”

“Yes. Just Katniss. And Katniss only. And it will be the following Friday.” There’re some things I want to attend to first. I turn my back on him and go on my way. I don’t know what this Max person does. He’s probably looking for someone else to annoy. But at least he’s presented me with another option. And options are exactly what I need right now. 

Well, that’s been a successful outing. Two jobs in less than an hour. And maybe something will come from the town council too. My spirits rise higher than they have in days. Whatever happens, I know I can survive this. 

I wander back towards the Village. Maybe there’s still time to do some hunting. I’m determined to stay busy. Anything than allowing myself to wallow. That won’t achieve a thing other than to bring on another bout of depression. 

It’s just as I pass through the gates that I see him. Peeta is at the side of my house, tending the primroses.

“You don’t have to do this, you know,” I say when I reach him. 

Peeta puts the trowel aside and gets to his feet. “I know, but I want to. We’re neighbors, right? Neighbors can help out with the gardening.” 

“Yeah, but I can do it myself. You don’t do any gardening for Haymitch.” I look over at Haymitch’s yard as I say this. It’s a desert. What hasn’t died through neglect has been eaten by his geese. 

“There really isn’t a garden to garden,” Peeta points out. “But if it makes you feel better, I don’t clean up after you when you’re drunk, so it all evens out.” He gives my arm a friendly nudge with his elbow accompanied by his most disarming smile. 

I don’t return it. I refuse to let him in even a little way, although he keeps on trying. “Well, thanks for doing it, even though you don’t need to.” It seems the polite thing to say to someone who’s doing your gardening for you. And, to be honest, the bushes probably wouldn’t last long if it was left to my gardening skills. I turn to go into the house, but something perverse inside me calls me back. 

“I got a job today. It’s just serving behind the counter but it will give me something to do besides hunting. It’s at a new bakery that’s about to open. One of the bakers we met at a Capitol feast owns it. You probably don’t remember it, though. But if you’re interested in frosting, he’s apparently the expert.”

Peeta’s smile dims and I instantly regret my words. This can’t be good news to him. I don’t know if he seriously wanted to open a bakery but now the option is off the table. 12 isn’t yet big enough to support two bakeries. 

“Right. Maybe I’ll call in when it opens.” He turns his face away and resumes his digging. “Congratulations on getting the job.”

“Thanks. Um, I guess I’ll see you around.” 

Buttercup is waiting for me when I get inside. I slosh some food into his bowl and then throw myself on the couch in the sitting room and switch on the television. I don’t feel like hunting now. My good mood has gone. It seems to disappear whenever I have contact with Peeta. A wall has gone up between us, all on my side. Peeta is an odd combination of uncertainty and eagerness to please. That’s how it’s been since the day we argued. Neither of us mentioned it when we next met, but the easy way we once interacted has gone. As far as I know, he hasn’t done anything to try to get his memories back and I’m determined to keep my distance until he does. 

It had been Peeta’s turn to host the Victors dinner that night but I had no intention of going. I went to see Haymitch to let him know about the new arrangement. To say he was annoyed is an understatement. I hadn’t known the dinners meant so much to him. And it’s not like he and Peeta can’t continue to eat together since he always seemed to prefer Peeta’s company anyway. He told me that Peeta doesn’t understand what’s happened to him and I’m punishing him for something that’s out of his control. He made me feel really bad. So bad, in fact, that I did something I rarely do. I consulted with Dr Aurelius. 

But to my surprise, Dr Aurelius approved. He told me not to let Haymitch make me a partner to his own guilt. I thought he might have taken Peeta’s side and urged me to maintain the friendship, seeing that he’s his patient and all. But he said I was his patient too, and he had to advise what was best for me, irrespective of what was best for Peeta. He even said this might be good for him and force him to confront certain issues instead of avoiding them. I also told him I was in love with Peeta hoping that he might give me some advice about how to get him back, or at least give me some insight into his thinking. But he didn’t. Instead, he set me a task, and that was to work on myself independently of Peeta. I was to think hard of what I want my life to be and what I’ll have to do to achieve it. 

Of course, that involves Peeta being in love with me again, but that’s up to Peeta now. I had to remember a long way back to a time when I was happy and what I was doing then. I thought of my father, and Prim, and hunting in the woods with Gale. I recalled the pride I had in my hunting and bargaining skills and how I provided for my family. In the end, I condensed it down to two things. Meaningful work and good relationships. I decided to tackle the easiest one first. Work. Perhaps the relationships will follow from that. They had before. 

Before I start at the bakery, I attend to something I’ve never given much attention to and that’s my appearance. I wonder if my lack of interest in it might have given Peeta the impression that I don’t care about being attractive to him. I’d taken it for granted that Peeta thought I was beautiful, no matter how I looked. Perhaps that’s changed. Lace seems to spend a lot of time on her appearance, always dressing neatly and with her hair carefully styled. I don’t want it to become a major part of my life or anything, but I could put in a little more effort. 

One of the new shops, just next to the tailor, is a beauty salon. I surreptitiously peeked in as I walked past, noting the gaudy décor in purple and gold, with basins for washing hair, and chairs for cutting and styling at the front of the shop, and curtained alcoves towards the back, presumably for waxing and other tortures. There’s a million of these places in the Capitol but this must be the first-ever in 12. I thought I’d had enough of being primped and prodded to last a lifetime when I was a tribute, but now I think I can do with a little “maintenance”, as they’d say in the Capitol. 

The following morning I’m at the door just as businesses are opening and there’s not many people about. There’s only one person inside, a Capitolite evidently, going by her pale mint green skin and blue-tipped blond hair. She’s hunched over the counter, reading a magazine. She lifts her head as the door clicks behind me. 

“Katniss!”

“Octavia!”

We scream each other’s names simultaneously. Octavia runs from behind the counter to envelop me in a hug. “Flavius! Come here! Quickly! It’s Katniss!”

Soon we’re in a three-way hug; Flavius’s bouncing corkscrew curls as vividly orange as ever. 

After the initial excitement is over, we fill each other in on what’s happened since we last met. That was at Snow’s execution. My prep team had been specially brought back to the Capitol from District 13 to make me as presentable as possible for the TV cameras. After my incarceration and then confinement to 12, my former prep team were without employment. But because the Capitol had sustained significant damage during the war from rebel bombs and discharged pods, many citizens were homeless and no longer enjoyed the affluence they once had. Consequently, decorating themselves was no longer the priority it had been and the beauty industry suffered. Venia chose to stay with her family in the Capitol, but Octavia and Flavius decided to risk all to set up their own salon in another district. And which district was the dreariest and most in need of their talents? Why, District 12, of course. 

The problem was that they hadn’t many customers so far. I think I can guess why. Few people want to be dyed green and have their hair styled in orange corkscrew curls. I decide to tell them to tone it down a little when the opportunity arises. They are their own advertisements and will likely have more success if they adjust to 12’s more conservative tastes. 

Unfortunately, after I’ve heard their story, I’m obliged to tell my own. It’s really hard since they were heavily invested in the star-crossed lovers. I recall Octavia’s tears when she, with the rest of my prep team, came to wake me to start on the preparations for the interviews and came across Peeta and me sleeping together. She almost cries again when I describe the current situation with Peeta.

“Oh Katniss, how could such a dreadful thing happen? And after all you’ve been through together. Well, you’ve come to the right place. A makeover sets everything right. I’ve always said so. Haven’t I, Flavius?”

I’m directed over to one of the chairs where my braid is unravelled for assessment. Octavia takes one of my hands to examine the nails. There’s several seconds of uncomfortable silence. Eventually, Flavius speaks. 

“When was the last time you had your hair cut?” he asks, quite unnecessarily. We both know from the uneven lengths that it hasn’t been cut since before the explosion that killed Prim and scarred Peeta and me. 

I shrug in answer. He then picks up a strand. It lies limply across his palm like a dead thing.

“What shampoo do you use?”

“No shampoo. Just soap.”

Flavius turns pale and I think he might faint. But then he rallies to find some deep inner strength for his shoulders square and his voice turns to steel. “Lock the door, Octavia. There’ll be no more customers today. We have an emergency situation.” 

While Flavius applies a deep conditioning treatment to my hair, Octavia starts on my nails. I’m a chronic nail biter and they’re down to the quick. Rather than try to make do with the nails I’ve got, Octavia adheres false nails to them. “Not too long,” I warn. Octavia seems disappointed but she does as I say and keeps them to a modest length and then finishes with what she calls a “Capitol polish.” 

After the conditioning treatment is rinsed off, Flavius sets to work on cutting my hair. We decide to leave it long enough to braid since that’s how I prefer to wear it. But otherwise, the length is evened out, and it’s given some shape around my face for those occasions for when I wear it loose. 

When my hair is dried, it’s gleaming like a curtain of black silk. “You’re a miracle worker,” I tell Flavius who blushes at the compliment. 

“We’re not finished yet,” he says. “Come this way.” I’m led to one of the private alcoves. Venia was the waxer-in-chief so I wonder what’s going to happen next. 

It seems Octavia has taken on that role, and I grit my teeth as body hair is ripped out by the roots. Except for my underarms I draw the line at having my torso waxed though. Never again. And then I’m scoured and rubbed down with a series of lotions. 

“Your skin has got much better, but there’s still room for improvement,” says Octavia. “We could start a course of treatments that will even out the skin tone and buff away the worst of the scarring. It’s not as good as a full body polish, but it’s the next best thing.” 

It's taken nearly four hours but my hair is shining and my skin is glowing. Flavius creates a make-up for me that I can do myself that accentuates my almond shaped eyes and high cheek bones. I’m so happy with the result that I book a series of appointments for more skin treatments and spend a small fortune on hair and skin products. Flavius waves away my attempt to pay for their hours but I insist and add a generous tip. They can’t afford to work for free when they’re short of customers. As we say goodbye, I promise to recommend them to all my friends. When I get some, that is. 

As I pass by the clothing shop, a summery dress in the colors of a sunset takes my eye. Half an hour later, I leave the shop with the dress and two new shirts. I see Lace through her shop window as I walk by. I give her a cheery wave, making sure that the bag with the shop’s name emblazoned on it is in plain sight. She returns the wave, but her smile is stiff. Ladies and gentlemen, let the Games begin!


	3. Chapter 3

For my first day at work I wear a Cinna made shirt in rose pink and dark blue trousers. I had spent the best part of a day going through all my clothes. Cinna had designed a wardrobe for every occasion, but I had avoided wearing it. I don’t know why. Maybe it was to keep it in perfect condition as a sort of memorial to him. But I think Cinna would prefer me to wear it. I like to think of it as the Mockingjay costume he designed for me. In a way, I’m going in to battle once again.  


It turns out to be a waste of time though, as I’m handed a uniform soon after I arrive. It’s white with a mandarin collar and an embroidered logo in brown on the breast pocket. Cass hands it to me almost apologetically.

“My sister-in-law’s idea. It’s easier not to argue, if you know what I mean,” he says in an undertone. He’s wearing the same uniform. 

Since I was here last week, the interior has been outfitted in tasteful neutral tones. All the color is in the display cases. I haven’t seen such a decadent display of cakes and pastries outside the Capitol. Big cakes, small cakes, cakes with buttercream and shaved chocolate, meringues and cheesecakes, petit fours and fruit tarts. The shelves behind them are filled with every kind of bread you can think of, from fruit and nut to basic white. 

“Wow, you have been busy. I had no idea they’d be such a huge variety to choose from.” I say in awe. 

“It’s not quite as big as we did in the Capitol,” Cass says. “Before the war, anyway.” He takes from the case a yeasty bun topped with flaked almonds and filled with custard and hands it to me. “Try this.” 

I take a bite and groan. “This is so good,” I tell him.

Cass smiles, pleased. “Bee sting. It’s our specialty.”

“Do you make cheese buns?” I ask. 

“Do we make cheese buns?” Cass repeats as if he can’t believe I’m asking. In another case, at the opposite side of the room, he points to a variety of savory buns. Cheese, cheese and bacon, cheese and onion, herb and garlic. I’m in heaven. 

“But do you think you have the market in 12 for all this?” I ask. Twelve might have grown a lot, but it’s still small by Capitol standards. 

“We’re confident we do. After all, there’s no competition. When we heard that 12 had services like ice-cream parlors and restaurants but no bakery, we could hardly believe it. Julius – that’s my brother – went to scout it out and didn’t come back. And then Cornelia joined him to help set up while I stayed in the Capitol to sell our bakery there.”

“Well, it’s very impressive -,” I begin. We’re interrupted by a woman aged about thirty with the reddest hair I’ve ever seen. She slaps a tray of bread on the counter and starts loading the loaves onto a shelf.  


“Hi, you must be Katniss. I’m Cornelia,” she says, without stopping. “I hope you’re ready for a busy day. Did you see the queue as you came in?”

I had. It was hard to miss. The line extended past the corner. I had also noted the shop sign. Carter’s Bakery and Patisserie. It’s not Peeta’s work, lacking the flair he usually brings to it, but it’s serviceable enough. 

Cornelia returns to the rear of the shop and Cass shows us how the cash register works. There’s three of us shop assistants and we work different hours, some of them overlapping, but we’re all here today for the opening. There’s Flora, a native of 12, with the typical Seam look of dark hair and grey eyes. And Sateen, a new arrival from 8. She has a similar colouring to Lace, but her brown hair lacks the same reddish glints, and her eyes are blue rather than blue-grey. 

The day is a blur of frantic activity with bread and cakes disappearing off the shelves and Cass, Cornelia and Julius doing their best to replenish them. None of us assistants have any experience serving in a shop but we bungle our way through, getting in each other’s way as we box cakes, bag loaves of bread and vie for the cash register. By day’s end, we’re exhausted but nearly everything in the shop has been sold. 

“It won’t be like this every day,” says Julius, who’s emerged from the back of the shop for the first time. “We’re a novelty at the moment. It will settle down soon. Then we’ll have a better idea of how much we’ll sell and what’s most popular.” Julius is an older version of his brother, but slightly shorter and with darker blond hair and a more serious air about him. 

Cass nods. “It was like this when we opened our bakery in the Capitol. It was the middle of the cupcake craze and Cornelia had the brilliant idea of the all-frosting cupcake. I mean, let’s face it, the best part is the frosting. They were flying out the door. That’s how I got to be one of the bakers at the feast. It was all on the strength of my frosting.”

“Cass is actually a pastry chef by trade,” explains Cornelia. “It’s Julius and me who are the bakers.”

“What’s a pastry chef?” I ask.  


“A chef who specialises in pastries and desserts. Breads too, sometimes. Cass does all the fancy stuff,” she replies.

“I do my best,” says Cass. “The baking’s no difficulty but I have little talent for cake decorating beyond the basics, and we’ll like to develop that side of the business at some stage. We don’t hold much hope for finding someone out here that could do it though.”

I can think of someone who’ll be perfect, but I keep my mouth shut. The idea is to have a life separate from Peeta. Sharing a work place with him is hardly conducive. 

Cornelia boxes up some of the left-over cakes and breads for us to take home. “One of the perks of the job,” she says.  


Flora, Sateen, and I swap puzzled glances. Surely this could be sold tomorrow as yesterday’s bread?

“Aren’t you going to sell this?” ventures Flora. 

“How? It will be stale tomorrow. No one wants to buy stale bread,” says Cornelia, clearly surprised by the question.  


I recall when Peeta told me that the only time he got to eat the apple and goat’s cheese tart his parent’s bakery produced was when it was very stale. How very different it was for people in the Capitol then, if they’d refuse to buy bread that wasn’t fresh. In the districts you’d think yourself lucky to get it, no matter how stale it was. How times have changed.  


Indeed, I say to myself as I make my way through the town, clutching the white bakery box to my chest. How many squirrels would Gale and I have needed to trade for this lot? Let’s see, usually a small loaf of plain bread equaled two squirrels. There’s a loaf of sour dough, two cheese buns, an apple pastry, a beefsteak pie and a bee sting in this box. At least ten or eleven, I calculate. Possibly more. 

I’m so engrossed in my thoughts that I almost pass by the ice-cream parlor without seeing it. I wish I had, for Peeta and Lace are there, seated at one of the outdoor tables. Peeta has his back to me, but Lace sees me. She says something to Peeta and he turns around. His arm goes up, gesturing for me to come over and I have no choice but to comply unless I want to appear rude. At least she’s not licking ice-cream off his face this time.  


I take the seat at the far end of the table, as far as I can possibly get from Shep, Lace’s big slobbering dog which seems to accompany her nearly everywhere she goes. Lace slips her hand into the crook of Peeta’s arm, and his free hand covers hers briefly with an affectionate pat. Having established her claim, she now turns her attention to me.

“How was your first day at the bakery? Peeta’s told me you got a job there. Serving behind the counter, isn’t it?”

I don’t know if I imagine it, but Lace sounds almost snide about what I do. Perhaps there’s a snobbery about owning a business versus being employed in one. But Lace’s round eyes look back innocently at me. Nonetheless, my guard goes up.

“It was fine,” I say stiffly. 

“The baker – the younger one, I mean, is pretty dishy. All the girls say he has great buns,” says Lace, with a giggle.

“Um, yes he has,” I say, thinking of the bee sting. I get the feeling that I’m missing something though. The bakery has only been open one day. That’s not long enough to get a reputation for great buns. I steal a glance at Peeta, hoping for clarification but he just looks uncomfortable. 

“What did you think of the beauty salon?” asks Lace. “I saw you go in last week. I’ve been tempted to try it, but I’m not sure. The proprietors look really weird. I don’t want to come out with green skin or wearing purple lipstick but you came out looking normal enough. Wanted to impress the new boss, huh?”

Before I can answer, Peeta interrupts. “What’s in the box?”

“Oh, we were given some things to take home.” I open the box and push it towards him so he can see the contents better. 

“Impressive,” he says, after a few moments. He doesn’t look impressed though. He looks rather glum, in fact. “Cheese buns too. I’m sure you’re happy about that.”

“I bet they aren’t as good as yours, Peety,” gushes Lace. _Peety? _“That looks interesting though,” she adds, pointing to the bee sting.__

____

____

“Try it,” I tell her. “I’ve already had one today. It’s the specialty of the house. It’s called a bee sting.”  


Lace picks it up delicately with her finger tips and takes a large bite. Custard spurts out the sides and then down the front of her blue polka dot dress. I guess being out in the sunshine has made the custard runny. Both Peeta and Lace reach for the paper napkins on the table and Lace dabs at the offending spot. 

She throws the napkin down. “It’s no good. I should rinse it. I don’t want it to stain. This is a new dress.” Lace glares at me as if I meant it to happen. She tells Shep to stay and then heads towards the restroom at the rear of the ice-cream parlor. 

Peeta and I watch her retreating figure. I’ve never noticed before how broad in the beam Lace is. Perhaps she’s been eating too much ice-cream.  


There’s an awkward silence. It’s almost like we’ve lost the ability to converse with each other. I suppose my telling him that we have nothing to say to each other hasn’t helped.  


“It probably won’t stain,” I get out, for want of something better to say. “It’s not like coffee or berry juice.” 

“No, but I suppose it’s better to be safe than sorry.”

“Yeah.”  


Peeta takes a deep breath. “Katniss, I’ve been wanting to ask you something and now seems as good a time as any. I’ve been thinking a lot of what you said about trying to get my memories back. You’re right. I won’t find myself by ignoring my past. And memories have started to resurface anyway so . . .” 

Peeta pauses here, and I hardly dare breathe in anticipation. Is he about to say that he remembers he loves me?

“Not that I expect that it will change how I feel about things,” he continues. “But I hope getting some memories back, at least, helps put it into context. I’ve been relying on instinct and I’m worried that if I put these feelings in the wrong place that one day, when I do remember, I might have done something I can’t take back. Something I might regret.”

“Oh,” is all I say as I process what he’s just said. There’s some good news in that. At least he’s not certain about it. “Has something happened?” I ask, hopefully. “Something that’s made you question things?”

“No, it’s just an idea that’s occurred to me. Lace thinks I should let my memories reveal themselves naturally – that if they’re meant to come back, they will. But Dr Aurelius thinks that some controlled method of accelerating the process could be beneficial. He wants to send me footage of the Games and our publicity tours – not all at once, just what he thinks I can handle. I’d like you to be there when I watch them. To ask questions of, if I have any.”

Right. That’s what he wants to ask me then. To watch the Games with him. To relive it. The full force of what I’ve asked Peeta to do hits me. It will be bad enough for me, knowing what to expect. For him, it will be like the first time. 

“Anything I can do to help,” I say. I put out my hand without thinking and Peeta covers it with his own. I have to stop myself from flipping mine upwards to hold his hand like I want to. 

“Thanks, Katniss. You’re such a good friend. Better than I deserve really.”

I shake my head no. “When?”

“Is Saturday afternoon OK? Around three? Dr Aurelius said he could have the first of the tapes to me by the end of the week.”

“Yes, that’s fine – “  


“What’s up?” Lace has returned. Almost the entire front of her bodice is wet. It had only been a little splotch. 

Peeta and I hastily pull our hands back. “I’d better go. Three on Saturday, then,” I say. I collect my box from the table sans bee sting and push my chair back. “Bye Peeta. Bye Lace.”

As I walk away, I see Lace questioning Peeta. His back is to me so I can’t see his reaction. I don’t have a good feeling about it. If anything can hinder Peeta’s memory recovery, it’s Lace.


	4. Chapter 4

On the way home, I drop into Haymitch’s to invite him to dinner. It’s the first meal we’ve shared since I bowed out of the Victor’s dinners. I don’t know if he and Peeta kept them up without me and I haven’t asked. But I do like to think I’ve been missed if they have. 

I heat up the beefsteak pie and cook vegetables to go with it. The loaf of sourdough I slice and put in the centre of the table. I let Haymitch have the apple pastry and we each have a cheese bun to finish. 

“It’s not better than Peeta’s,” I say after I take my first bite. There’s hardly anything to distinguish them in fact, except that Peeta uses a slightly sharper cheese. “Is he very upset about the bakery? The Carters only came here because they heard 12 didn’t have one.”

Haymitch finishes his bun in three bites and then wipes his greasy fingers on the tablecloth. Really, you’d think years of being around Effie would have taught him some manners. 

“Something about it upsets him,” he says. “But I don’t think it’s opening his own bakery. He’s had plenty of time if that’s what he wanted. I doubt he knows what he wants. He dabbles in ideas, testing one, and then another, to see how they fit.”

I nod. Peeta doesn’t really commit to anything. Except maybe Lace. But then, when I think on it, she didn’t really become “girlfriend” until I called her one. What an idiot thing to do, if it was me who put the idea in his head. It occurs to me, that even though Peeta resists being told who he is, he’s still vulnerable to suggestion. I guess that’s the danger of not knowing who you truly are. You’d constantly be looking for any kind of clue; anything being better than nothing. 

“Has Peeta said anything about the tapes Dr Aurelius sent him?” I ask. I’m curious to know what Haymitch thinks. I prepare myself for criticism as it was the ultimatum I gave Peeta that was the impetus behind it. 

“He has,” he replies, “and it pains me to say it, but you might’ve been right. Cosseting him like we have hasn’t helped him. He needed a reason to fight to get his memories back, and you seem to have given him one.”

“On the way to the Capitol to kill Snow, Peeta was so determined,” I say, recalling our first tentative attempts to reconnect with each other after the hijacking. “We – the squad, Peeta and I – played the real, not real game. He’d test his memories on us, and we’d say if it was real or not.” My voice cracks. “He trusted me then, to tell him the truth. Now he doesn’t. He actually told me that. Not entirely, anyway.”

Haymitch gives me a side-ways glance. “He trusts you. You don’t seek out people you don’t trust to be friends with. He just gets confused between what the hijacking made him believe and what he actually feels. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t want you to watch the tapes with him. He hasn’t asked me.”

“What? I just assumed that you would. I mean, you were there. You could corroborate. Give a different viewpoint . . .”

“I could. But it seems he wants only you.” Haymitch belches and stands to leave. “My advice. Be completely honest with him. Don’t even try to be diplomatic or soften the truth, no matter how bad it looks. He’ll know.” 

Halfway out the door, Haymitch turns back. “If you get more of those apple pastries . . .

Ugh! Haymitch and his stomach. I don’t hear the rest of it. My thoughts are too full of Peeta and how he wants only me to watch the tapes with him. Not Haymitch, who I thought Peeta seemed to prefer these days, but me! It has to be a good sign. My refusal to have anything to do with him must have been the motivation he needed. It’s sort of like when we were in the Star Squad and I called him a mutt and said the real Peeta was gone. Haymitch was angry with me when he heard, but it did seem to mark a turnaround in Peeta’s attitude. That’s when he decided to trust me with getting his memories back, and I wanted to help him in return. It’s the start of something big. I know it! I imagine us watching the tapes sitting together on a couch as we did when we watched the Games in the interviews with Caesar Flickerman. Perhaps we’ll hold hands, or even cuddle as we did then. It was horrifying to watch it the first time, of course, and it will probably be just as horrifying a second time, and I dread all the bad memories it will evoke, but oh, how wonderful it will be when Peeta sees how close we were, and how we protected each other. Surely, he’ll remember that he loves me when he does. 

It’s just as well there are lots to distract me before Saturday. I’d be climbing the walls with impatience if there weren’t. As it is, I have to remind myself to concentrate on matters at hand because I find it so hard to think of little else. 

Over the next few days, it’s still very busy at the bakery. But as Julius predicted, the number of customers begins to decline. There’s even a little time to become better acquainted with my co-workers. I learn that Flora Dogwood is seventeen and a survivor of Snow’s bombing of 12. Her family has recently returned to their home district from District 13 and, with the exception of Flora, are employed in the medicine factory. Sateen Bobbin is twenty-two, never wants to work with textiles again, and is a relative of the Bobbin family who owned and managed the largest factory in 8. The tailor who’s opened a shop on Main Street is her brother. 

On Friday, I turn up at the school about fifteen minutes before the first bell. I was tempted to give the whole thing a miss. Working at the bakery has been more tiring than I thought since I’m on my feet all day. What I really want is time on my own and to go hunting. Instead, I’ll be herding a bunch of kids through the woods and trying very hard not to lose any. But I said I would, so here I am. I wear my preferred attire of khaki trousers, hunting jacket and boots. I hesitated over whether to bring my bow or not, wondering if it’s appropriate to take weapons into a school. But then, on the other hand, losing a child to a predator wouldn’t be a good look either. 

I enter the schoolhouse without knocking, tentatively putting my head around the door first to see if anyone’s about. It’s a large room, filled with a motley assortment of desks, a blackboard on the rear wall and in front of that, the teacher’s desk. Five adults are peering over some papers strewn across it. Their heads rise abruptly when they hear me enter. Floppy- haired man (I’ve forgotten his name) comes towards me, smiling broadly. “Katniss! You came!”

I scowl at him. There’s just something about him that rubs me the wrong way. “I said I would, didn’t I?”

The smile dims a little. “Ah, yes, you did. If you come this way, I’ll introduce you.” He puts his hand at my back to usher me forward. 

“If you don’t mind,” I say, glancing pointedly over my shoulder at it. “Personal space and all.” That’s what I don’t like about him. He’s so pushy and over-familiar. 

He drops his hand from my back then raises both as if in surrender. I scowl at him again and make my way over to the others. 

Floppy-haired man appears at my side to make the introductions. There’s Mr and Mrs Matson, a middle-aged couple with greying hair and a mild, patient demeanour. Moira, their daughter, auburn-haired and very pretty. Son, Milo, good looking in an understated way with brown hair and brown eyes. Hands are shaken all around. 

“I’m not quite sure what’s expected of me,” I say to Mr Matson. He seems to be the one in charge.

“We’re leaving it up to you. It’s really about connecting these children with nature. Giving them an awareness and appreciation of it. And also, it’s dangers. Most of our children grew up around factories or mining. Here they have a huge forest on their doorstep. It’s a whole new world for them.”

“It will only be in small groups,” Mrs Matson assures me. “And only for an hour or two. As the school is still quite small, by days end, all the students will have had a turn.”

Suddenly I’m excited to be part of it. This is something I can do and do well. All I have to do is impart the same knowledge to these children that my father gave me. And there’s also a lot I learned on my own. I had begun to fear that it might be some formal arrangement, giving lectures or something in front of the whole school, albeit in the woods. 

“Max will accompany you on your first day. Just to get you acquainted with the children and make sure they don’t give you any trouble,” adds Mr Matson. 

So floppy-haired man’s name is Max. I force a smile. In my side-vision, I see a big smirk on Max’s face. I finger the string of my bow. I’m so glad I brought it with me. 

Fortunately for Max I don’t end up using it. Not on him, anyway. One of the older children, a sort of junior version of Max, thinks it’s funny to scare his classmates with tales of ferocious man-eating beasts and squirrels that drop out of trees to munch on the heads of passers-by. After reassuring the kids that it’s completely untrue, I give a brief demonstration of what any animal that dared to attack could expect. It shuts that kid right up. And Max too. 

By the end of the school day, every child has had a turn in the woods. As Mr Matson had said, for many of them it’s a whole new world. I remember some of the districts Peeta and I had visited on the Victory Tour where there was scarcely a blade of grass to be seen. Even in 12, exposure to nature was limited if you didn’t venture into the woods. The kids are so excited that I’m excited too. I don’t know if they learn much, but I think we all have a good time. Next time, I’ll have to put more substance into it. Perhaps safety in the woods would be a good place to start and then go on to identifying the different plants and animals. 

I sleep well that night, exhausted by the unaccustomed activity of the past five days. Just as well, otherwise, the anticipation of spending the afternoon with Peeta watching old footage of us together would have kept me up all night. I wonder what we’ll start with. I have no idea if it will be chronological, starting with the reaping, or all mixed up. But whatever it is, I need to be prepared and to answer any questions Peeta might have as honestly as I can, no matter how awkward it might be.  


The next day, I spend an inordinate amount of time choosing what to wear. I want to appear casually elegant and maybe just a little bit sexy. What I don’t want is to look as if I’ve tried too hard. That’s more difficult than I first thought. Anything more than my usual baggy khaki trousers and T-shirt tells the world that I’ve put in more than my usual effort. I didn’t have this problem after I won the Games, but then I don’t have my mother around to remind me to dress according to my status any more. I guess, when left to my own devices, I’m just a natural slob. 

Eventually, I decide on figure-hugging black trousers that make my rear end look great if I do say so myself. A simple clinging top in forest green completes the ensemble. I debate whether to go braless to allow my nipples to show through but then decide that it might be a bit too obvious and go with the bra. My hair I wear down except for the side sections which I braid loosely to tie at the back of my head. And then I carefully apply makeup, just as Flavius had shown me. 

At exactly three o’clock I’m at Peeta’s door. My insides are churning with nervous energy and I wonder if I should have gone to the bathroom before I left. I had gone, I remind myself. It’s just the excitement and I don’t really need to go. Oh, please, please let only good things come from this. It could be my only chance. 

I hesitate for a few seconds, then reach for the brass knocker. One, two, three raps and then I wait. I hear voices, more than one, some scuffling and then feet approaching the door. The door opens. It’s not Peeta. It’s Lace. She wears a low-cut pink dress, her breasts almost spilling out. The first thing that comes into my head is that I should have left off the bra.


	5. Chapter 5

Shep bounds out to greet me. I push him away, perhaps more forcefully than I need to. He leaves behind what seems to be half his coat on my black trousers. 

“Hi Katniss!” Lace chirps, following it with that stupid pearly laugh of hers. “Come in. We’ve been waiting for you. It’s all set up in the sitting room.” She looks me up and down, taking in the extra care I’ve taken. “All dressed up for the occasion, I see.” 

Peeta appears just behind her. He tries to make eye contact. I think there’s an unspoken apology there, but I refuse to look at him. I am so angry! This is my life too we’re about to dissect and then discuss. What is she doing here? How dare he invite her! And even if she just turned up, how could he let her stay?

“I have somewhere to go after this,” I tell Lace. It’s a lie, of course. I had no plans other than to hopefully spend lots of one-on-one time with Peeta. Obviously, that’s not going to happen. 

“Well, you look very nice,” says Peeta. 

“Thanks,” I reply, but without enthusiasm. I’m too mad at him to take any pleasure in the compliment. 

Shep jumps back up, leaving another layer of dog hair on my clothes. “Can something be done about this dog?” I ask irritably. “Maybe some training?”

“Shep, come here,” calls Peeta. He takes Shep by the collar and leads him away into the rear of the house. Bloody nuisance of a dog. 

I follow Lace into the sitting room. “Can I get you a tea or hot chocolate? Or maybe a cold drink?” offers Lace.

“No thank you,” I say stiffly. So now she’s also playing the role of host in Peeta’s home. I want to scream with disappointment and frustration but I can’t afford to let my emotions show so I do the next best thing. I set my face into a stony mask and steel myself to get through the coming ordeal as well as I can. 

Peeta’s sitting room is set up like mine. In front of the television, there’s a two-seater couch and single lounge chairs on either side. I note there’s a plate of frosted cookies on the coffee table, each bearing a floral motif. Among them, I recognise the flower with three petals as katniss flowers. Haven’t lost your talent for playing the two of us at the same time, have you Peeta? 

“Would you like a cookie, Katniss?” asks Lace, as she holds the plate out to me. 

“No thanks. I had my fill of baked goods during the week.” 

Just then Peeta walks in and I can tell by his frown that he heard me. 

“Well, let’s get started, shall we?” I say. The sooner we start, the sooner we finish and I can get out of here. 

“Of course,” says Peeta. He doesn’t look happy. I guess he’s anxious about what’s on the tape. 

He turns on the television and inserts the tape into the player. Immediately the Panem Capitol seal appears on the screen. We’re about to see official televised footage then. 

It might be my imagination, but Lace seems to race towards the two-seater couch to get there first. Peeta sits down beside her and I take my place on one of the single chairs. In my peripheral vision, I see him turn to me with a worried expression but I keep my eyes forward and pretend not to notice. I’ve kicked off my shoes to hug my knees to my chest and I drop my head to partially obscure my face. I wish I could shut all of this out. Lace, him, me. Everything.  


Peeta presses the start button on the remote. The Capitol Seal is replaced by images of Peeta and me at one of the big Capitol events. Dr Aurelius seems to have chosen to start with the least harrowing and emotionally fraught, although this is also bad. We were performing for our lives, afraid that one wrong move would doom not only our families but entire districts. 

Lace leans her head against Peeta’s shoulder and his arm goes around her. I’m glad I’m sitting where I can’t see them from the front. I don’t want to know if they’re also holding hands. Like Peeta and I did on the Capitol stage. 

To keep the tears at bay, I take refuge in anger. Where do they think they are? At the movies? It’s just as well I don’t have my bow with me or I’d send an arrow through both their skulls. I hate them so much! And I’m done with Peeta. For good this time. I haven’t changed my mind about helping him regain his memories, but I don’t owe him more than that. 

The tape continues to play although I pay little attention to it. It’s a montage of Capitol parties. Many changes of clothes for Peeta and me. Garishly costumed Capitolites showing off their Mockingjay accessories. Glimpses of Haymitch and Effie and assorted Capitol celebrities. But most of all there’s kissing. Lots of kissing, hand-holding, slow dancing and romantic gazes. I take grim satisfaction that Lace is watching it. But what else could she expect? She’s seen it all before. This was mandatory viewing. Was she taken in by it? Did she believe the hype? How does she reconcile all this with her relationship with Peeta and his friendship with me? What has Peeta told her?

After what seems an age, the tape ends. The screen goes blank and Peeta clicks on the remote to turn off the television. No one speaks.

I wait for Peeta’s questions, wondering how this will work. Peeta’s greatest confusion centres around me. Lace’s presence could have an inhibiting effect. 

He starts haltingly, feeling his way. “I remember some of it. The dress you wore to the district party in 7, for example.” This is no surprise. We talked of this when we played the real, not real game on the way to the Capitol. “And dancing with you. I think it was at a feast?”

“That’s right. It was the night we became engaged. The feast was after. We were disgusted with the waste of food when there was so much starvation in the districts. You met Cass – one of the bakers I work for. He gave you his frosting to take home.”  


Peeta nods. “They gave out drinks to make you puke so could you could go on eating.”

“Yes,” I say, growing excited. He’s remembering! I get out of my chair and walk around to face him. “And then you questioned whether we were doing the right thing by trying to subdue the unrest in the districts.” 

He frowns at this, considering it. “It’s why we kissed so much – to make people believe our romance was real. And that we weren’t out to defy the Capitol.”

I don’t respond. Dread freezes my tongue. I know what’s coming next.

“We were acting. Both of us,” he says. He looks down at his feet as if he’s recalling a sad fact, and then back up at me, searching my face, waiting for confirmation. 

And what can I say? For while Peeta was as madly in love with me as ever, all that public romance stuff was indeed an act. For him, as well as me.

I want to tell him that we were growing closer, that I would come to feel the same way about him that he did about me. But some instinct tells me that this isn’t the right time. That maybe Dr Aurelius intends there to be a progression and that I shouldn’t rush things. That I should let Peeta’s questions be my guide. Besides, Lace is here, hanging onto every word. So I bite my tongue and merely nod. 

He seems to consider it for a moment and then responds with a nod of his own. “Yeah, thought so.”

I take a deep breath. I have to leave before I do something stupid like cry. “Well, if there are no more questions, I should be going. There are people expecting me.” I make my way to the door. “Same time next week?” 

I scarcely wait for the answer. I’m halfway to my house when I hear my name called. I want to ignore it, but when it’s repeated, louder this time and more urgently, I have little choice but to stop.

I turn around but remain where I am until Peeta reaches me, slightly breathless. “Katniss, I want to explain about Lace. I didn’t mean for her to be there, but when she turned up, I didn’t like to ask her to leave. She wants to be supportive. She means well, but if it makes you uncomfortable, I’ll ask her to stay away in future.”

I want to shout at him. To demand why let her stay in the first place. It’s our story! It has nothing to do with her! But if I have to tell him all the ways in which Lace being there is so wrong, then what’s the point? He shouldn’t even have to ask. He should know. And what’s this about making me uncomfortable? Me? What about him having to talk about this great love he claims he had for me in front of his girlfriend? Probably it’s not a problem for him because he doesn’t have it anymore. 

I shrug. “It’s your party. Invite who you like. It’s not as if the whole of Panem hasn’t seen it already.” I look away from him, towards my house. I don’t want him to see how close I am to tears. “I’d better go. I’m running late and I have to change my clothes. There’s dog hair all over me.” 

“Bye, Katniss,” he calls after me, “and thanks.” There’s a mixture of resignation and bewilderment in his voice as if he’s wondering what he’s done wrong this time. 

Well, fuck him, I think as I tear off my black trousers and toss them into a corner of my bedroom. I don’t care that he was hijacked. If he had even an ounce of consideration for me then Lace would have been asked to leave immediately. I suppose this is his idea of being a good boyfriend. Let the girlfriend stay because she wants to be supportive. Wants to sabotage, more like.

My second choice of dark green trousers still lie across the bed, so I put them on before grabbing some money from the dresser. I can’t go to the woods like I want to in case I’m caught in the lie. That leaves the town. 

At least the walk helps burn off the anger. In fact, by the time I reach the town square, I’m hovering on despair again. I have to remind myself that it’s early days and that we’ve barely begun the process to restore Peeta’s memories. But there’s this feeling that time’s not on my side, and that the longer it takes, the closer he’ll become with Lace. Maybe he’ll even prefer her, despite his memories coming back, and it’s something I should prepare myself for. It might even be the reason why Dr Aurelius advised me to work on myself. He knows what’s in Peeta’s mind better than anybody.

There are not many people about late on a Saturday afternoon. Shops are closed, cafes are winding down and restaurants are yet to open. That leaves 12’s two pubs. Pre-war, it was mostly peacekeepers who frequented these kinds of places. The only girls from 12 who went into them were looking for business. Maybe times have changed though. Twelve is definitely more cosmopolitan than it used to be. And it’s not like I’m dressed like, well like Lace was dressed this afternoon, with her boobs hanging out everywhere. 

I choose what appears from the outside to be the most respectable. I make a beeline for the bar, perch myself on a stool and pick up the drink menu in front of me. I’ve never had a cocktail before and the list is mystifying. I end up ordering a martini because I like the way it sounds. It tastes foul. But at least by the rate I’m sipping this thing, it should while away an hour or two. 

After about ten minutes, I get sick of the stool and move to a table. More customers start to filter in. A man, tow-headed and with a Capitol accent, takes the chair opposite and tries to engage me in conversation. I give him a withering look before he leaves to join a group of men at another table. They are obviously friends of his because they glance my way and then turn back to him, laughing. Arseholes. I’m already on edge when a hand descends on my shoulder. I jerk back in anger and hot words spring to my lips. But when I see who the hand belongs to, I pull them back. 

“Hi Katniss. Are you here on your own? Do you mind if we join you?” Sateen asks. She’s with a man I don’t recognise. 

“Of course not,” I say, as I make more room for them. I’m glad to have the company. Not only will it deter unwelcome attention, it also validates my lie. These can be the people I was meeting with all along. 

“This is Arthur. He’s the brother I told you about. The tailor,” says Sateen. 

Arthur and I shake hands. He’s of medium height with brown hair that’s started to recede and mild blue eyes. 

“I often walk past your shop,” I say to him. “Are you getting a lot of business?”

Arthur’s face lights up. This is evidently a pet topic for him. “It was slow at first but it’s picking up. It’s not what I want to do long term though. As soon as I build up enough capital, I’d like to open my own factory. Ready-to-wear is where the real money is.”

“It was the family business in 8,” explains Sateen. “Well, it was until our factory was bombed. Most of our workers were killed, and Arthur and I barely escaped ourselves. At least the money from the safe was still there. It gave us something to live on and paid for our move here. So now we start again. Like nearly everyone, I suppose.” 

I think of Lace, who has a similar story. Except that she had been a factory worker, rather than a factory owner. 

“We’re just lucky to have been taught a trade. Dad insisted that we know all aspects of the business and it turned out Arthur has quite the talent for tailoring. He even got offers to work in the Capitol,” says Sateen proudly.

“Only two,” says Arthur modestly, but he looks pleased nonetheless. 

I ask, “what made you choose 12? Why not stay in 8?”

Sateen shrugs. “We wanted a fresh start. There’re not many good memories in 8, what with the bombings and all. We also lost family members. Dad and a cousin of ours were killed in a separate bombing a few days later. And Mum died when we were little so there’s only Arthur and me. So when we heard about the medicine factory opening in 12 it seemed ideal. If there’s one factory, there’ll be more so why shouldn’t one of them be a clothing factory? There’s also not much competition here and lots of new people to the district who need clothes.” 

I nod. It seems that’s why most people come to 12. For opportunity. Personally, if I were coming here from 8, it would be for the woods. Eight was the most depressing of all the districts. Nothing but factories and tenements. 

I come to the last of my martini and I push the glass from me. Immediately Arthur springs up and offers to buy me another. I decline, but Sateen wants a drink and Arthur makes his way over to the bar. 

Once he’s out of hearing, Sateen leans forward and talks in a loud whisper. “I had to nag him to come out tonight. He’s so shy around new people. Especially women. And it’s such a shame because you couldn’t find a nicer guy. He’s ambitious too. A real catch.” She regards me thoughtfully. “He seems to like you.”

“Oh, does he? It’s probably because he feels he knows me already. From the tv. A lot of people are like that,” I say hastily. I certainly don’t want Sateen doing any matchmaking between Arthur and me. 

“Yeah, probably. I didn’t think of that,” she replies, sounding a little disappointed. 

Arthur returns with the drinks and we chat some more. Soon after I make my excuses. I’ve been gone for long enough and I want to get home before dark. 

As I pass through the Village gates, I encounter Lace on her way home. We greet each other politely. No one would guess that we don’t trust each other an inch. Once our paths have crossed, the corners of my mouth lift in a smile. A genuine one this time. As far as the fight for Peeta goes, it’s been a disastrous day for me, and a triumphant one for her. But I do have one thing to celebrate. At least she’s not spending the night.


	6. Chapter 6

The following Saturday, I’m outside Peeta’s door again but with considerably lower expectations than I had the week before. But at least it won’t be as bad as last week now that we’ve got the acting thing out of the way. 

It’s Peeta who opens the door this time. His eyes widen with admiration when he sees what I’m wearing. I knew he’d like it.

“You’re as radiant as a sunset,” he says. 

“Thank you. When I saw this dress in the shop window that’s what it reminded me of.” I see Lace hovering in the background. “It’s from the shop just a few doors down from you, Lace.” 

Lace smiles tightly. “Yeah, I remember seeing it.” 

There’s no sign of Shep. Either Lace has left him at home, or he’s been put in a back room. I wish Lace had been too. I’ve been kicking myself all week that I didn’t take up Peeta’s offer to tell her to stay away for the tape viewings but instead allowed angry pride to rule me. So here she is, in a green floral dress that accentuates her breasts and small waist, her mahogany hair curling artfully over her shoulders. Lace always takes care of her appearance but she’s gone to extra trouble today. I smooth back my hair, left loose and flowing down my back in silky waves and stare coolly back. Challenge met. 

Peeta has no idea what’s going on, his blue eyes innocent of the tension between Lace and me. 

“Going out after this?” Lace asks all friendly interest. 

“Yes, I am. I’m meeting friends.” And it’s true this time. Sateen, Arthur, Flora and I are going to a restaurant together. Sateen is quite the social organiser. 

We move into the sitting room. Peeta asks if I’d like a drink before we get started and I accept this time because it’s Peeta who asks. I also take a chocolate chip cookie to go with my glass of water. The bakery doesn’t do cookies and I have missed Peeta’s. 

This time I don’t even think about occupying the two-seater couch but take a seat on one of the lounge chairs to the side. Lace, and then Peeta take the couch. The television flickers to life and the next instalment of the star-crossed lovers saga begins. 

After last week, I thought Dr Aurelius might continue with the least harrowing of the archival footage, but no, he seems to have decided to plunge Peeta into the deep end this time. It’s the District 11 leg of the Victory Tour. I recognise the marble stairs of the District 11 Justice building. We would have to face the families of Thresh and Rue, and then witness the death of a frail old man, shot through the head by a peacekeeper. 

My eyes search out Peeta. It’s hard to make out his reaction to what’s on the screen from where I’m sitting. The light in the room is dim and my view of him is partially obscured by Lace, who’s chosen to sit on the side of the couch closest to me. It should be me sitting next to him! Not her! How can I read him, if I’m all the way over here? 

The sound of applause pulls my attention back to the television screen. It’s the audience reacting to Peeta and me as we walk onto the makeshift stage. The camera pans across the crowd and then to the families of the dead tributes who stand waiting on a special platform just below us. The mayor makes his speech, and then Peeta and I make the scripted speech that Effie wrote. Then Peeta makes his own, personal speech to Rue’s and Thresh’s families when, to the astonishment of all, he pledges to give them a month of our winnings every year for the rest of our lives. Peeta and I exchange glances and I rise on tiptoe to kiss him. The camera records all our movements but what it doesn’t catch is how I felt about him at that moment. How I found it impossible to imagine that I could do any better than him. 

A pang of loss slices through me. I miss that boy so much. For a few seconds, I forget about District 11 and what’s to happen next and instead focus on the Peeta and Katniss on the TV screen. We look so young. Far too young to have the weight of the world on our shoulders. But Peeta’s love for me shines through, like a brightly burning flame. And there’s me, confused, unsure, but slowly falling. If only I had known sooner, perhaps we wouldn’t be where we are now. 

The mayor presents us each with a large plaque and I put down my bouquet of flowers to hold it. It signals the end of the ceremony, but I tell them to wait. I have something to say to the families. I speak from the heart, and it seems to resonate because there’s a hushed silence from the crowd when I finish. This is where I expect the tape to end. For surely what is to follow wouldn’t have made the official broadcast. But Dr Aurelius seems to have got hold of the unedited tape because the cameras keep on rolling. 

An old man in the crowd whistles Rue’s four-note mockingjay tune. And then, as if pre-arranged, every person kisses the three middle fingers of their left hand and holds them out to me. I recall the sudden sense of dread and panic. It was a gesture of defiance to the Capitol and somehow, I had provoked it. I was supposed to defuse tensions in the districts, not inflame them. The mayor then says a few words and Peeta and I head toward the doors. That’s when I go back for my flowers and see peacekeepers drag the old man to the top of the steps. To be shot. 

I lose sight of Peeta and me. Peacekeepers have surrounded us, blocking us from sight. We were ushered into the building at that point. In the square there’s pandemonium. People screaming, terrified, as two more men are pulled from the crowd to be shot in the head too. The crowd pulls back, seemingly realising that their greater numbers are no match for the peacekeeper’s guns. But their expressions remain defiant. A thin wail pierces the silence. I think it must come from a woman who has thrown herself over the body of one of the dead men, but it continues when the television screen goes black. It’s coming from Lace. 

Peeta tries to calm her down. Through the sobs we hear a garbled story of witnessing a skirmish in the main square of District 8. Lace saw it from the window of the apartment where her family lived.

While Lace cries against Peeta’s neck, I hang back, silent, my emotions swinging between anger, despair and straight-out jealousy. There’s also contempt for Lace, unfair though it is. It would have been an awful thing to witness, but it wasn’t her that was being shot at. She’s alive, isn’t she? And her family is too. She has everything to be grateful for as she blubbers away. She gets to enjoy the sacrifices that others have made while losing little. She even gets Peeta. 

And as for him, I might as well not be here. It’s all about Lace. If I’m been relegated to second place on Peeta’s list of priorities, then it’s so far down from first that it might as well be last. I don’t wait for Lace to quieten down so Peeta can ask his questions. I just leave. 

The walk into town is a quick one. I want to get as much distance between me and the Village as possible. I begin to think that perhaps my future no longer lies with Peeta, and that I have to look outward more than I have ever done before if I’m to survive this. Because I think I might have lost him. Forever this time. These tapes do nothing but push Peeta closer to Lace. I’ve made a big tactical error, and now I have to live with it. And I can’t opt out. I made a promise, and it was my idea to begin with. 

Strangely, the thought doesn’t throw me into despair as I thought it might. Letting go of hope has a deadening affect. I feel almost nothing. That can be my strategy. I’ll be as detached from it all as much as I can. If I expect nothing then I won’t be disappointed when that’s inevitably what I get. 

By the time I reach the town square, I’m feeling better. But I’m also aware how fragile this new attitude is, and that it won’t take much to tip me right back to where I started. I look around for something to distract me. I’ve arrived too early to meet the others so I head for the pub I went to last week. Over an old fashioned this time (I didn’t think I could go wrong with something that’s stood the test of time) I secrete myself in a corner to enjoy my drink. Which I don’t. For two reasons. It tastes foul and Max Matson is here. 

He’s at the bar, drinking a beer. He appears to be alone but by the way he’s scanning the room, it’s clear that he doesn’t intend to be that way for long. I shrink into the shadows as much as I can but it’s no good. He’s seen me and he’s heading this way. 

“Katniss! On your own?”

“No, just trying to be.” 

Max ignores me and takes the seat opposite. 

“Cheers”, he says, clinking his glass against mine. “So how are you finding working at the school?”

I hesitate. I really want to tell him to take a hike. But I do share a workplace with him, and to give him his due, he was responsible for getting me the job. Just tolerate him, I tell myself. That’s all you have to do. 

“It’s good. I like the kids and they seem to enjoy the lessons.”

“Well, who wouldn’t be impressed by having the Mockingjay as your teacher? Especially when she brings her bow along and shoots arrows into innocent trees. There was one terrifying moment when I thought you were going to shoot me.”

I try, but I can’t keep the scowl off my face. “And why would I possibly want to shoot at you?”

“Don’t know. But I seem to bother you, for some reason.”

“I think if you tried really, really hard, you’d figure out why.”

“Hmm. Because you’re attracted and you don’t want to be?”

I can’t be bothered dignifying that with an answer, so I take another sip of my drink instead. 

“Why do you drink something you hate?”

“Who says I hate it?”

“You screw up your face every time you take a drink.”

Irritated, I bang my glass back down on the table. “Did you specifically come over here to annoy me?” 

“Is that what I’m doing?” he asks. He seems genuinely surprised. “I don’t mean to. I’m just trying to get to know you. It’s pretty daunting you know. Meeting the Mockingjay.”

I put up my hand. “You can stop right there. I’m not the Mockingjay anymore. I didn’t ask for it and I didn’t want it. If you really want to get to know me, then it’s as plain Katniss Everdeen, not some preconceived idea of what you think you know about me from what you saw on tv.”

“So they aren’t one and the same?”

“Nope. Not even close.”

“Well, that’s a shame. I only asked you to join the school because of what I saw on tv. So, it wasn’t you who volunteered for her sister? Or took that twelve-year-old under her wing and sang to her as she died? Or nursed that liability called Peeta Mellark? Or took care of the odd couple from 3 in the Quell? Or knew how to live off the land? Or threatened to eat poisonous berries rather than – “

“Of course that was me,” I interrupt impatiently. “I mean the rest of it. You know, the costume and the speeches and stuff. Or that I was some kind of revolutionary. That part wasn’t me.”

He leans forward and whispers conspiratorially. “For the record, I thought both were awesome but the Katniss Everdeen part most of all.”

“Oh,” I say, taken aback. The last person who thought I was anything close to awesome was Prim. Peeta hasn’t thought that way about me since he was hijacked. And then to hear it from this irritating man I barely know, who in this moment, has just given me something I didn’t even know I hungered for until now. 

I try to hide how it’s affected me, but I can feel myself blushing. “Well, just wait ten minutes,” I say in an attempt to downplay it. 

Max laughs. He holds up his empty glass. “Do you mind if I get another drink while I’m waiting? What about you? Care to ditch that drink for something you might actually like?” 

“Yeah. Thanks. Maybe something non-alcoholic this time,” I say. 

He returns with another beer and an orange juice for me. We spend the next half hour chatting comfortably – talking about the school and how he and his family came to 12. He’s still annoying and he evidently loves to tease. But when it’s time to leave, I realise I might have made progress on the second part of my goal. I think I’ve made a friend. 

It’s not far to the restaurant. A few doors down from the bakery actually. Flora, Sateen and Arthur are already there when I arrive. It soon becomes clear why Sateen organised this outing. She’s trying to set up Flora with Arthur. Unfortunately for Sateen, her attempt to cultivate conversation between the two falls flat every time. Arthur is too old and serious for Flora, who shows more interest in flirting with the waiter. 

Eventually, Sateen gives up and the company relaxes into easy conversation. Sateen tells Flora she wouldn’t mind colouring her “boring” brown hair. I actually think it’s an attractive shade of ash brown that reminds me of the bark of a black oak and I tell her so. But apparently nearly everyone from 8 has this hair colour and she wants something different. This seems a good time to recommend Flavius and Octavia which then leads to questions about my time as a tribute and all the styling and prepping we had to undertake. You’d think Arthur would be bored by the conversation, but he listens intently and asks a question now and then. It turns out that he did some work for Cinna and he and I reminisce, having at last found common ground. That is until I catch Sateen watching us speculatively. I don’t want to give her any ideas. 

It’s nearly dark by the time I get home. Summer is drawing to a close and the days are getting shorter. A chill has settled on the night air and I look forward to being indoors to get warm. I was so intent on getting away from the Village that I forgot to drop home first to pick up a cardigan or a jacket before I left. 

I’m almost on top of him before I see him. His body is partially obscured by the deep shadows cast by the porch roof. I wonder how long he’s been waiting. Certainly not more than when Lace left for home, I figure. He wouldn’t be sitting on my front porch if she was still here.

Peeta turns his head as I approach but stays seated. 

“Hi,” he says.

I sit down beside him. I guess I could invite him in but I don’t want to appear too friendly. Not until he’s earned it, anyway. Besides, if I’m not welcome in his house at night unannounced, then I don’t see why I should welcome him into mine. 

“How long have you been here?” I ask. 

He shrugs. “Don’t know. Not that long.” He pauses for a moment and then speaks in a rush. “I want to apologise for this afternoon. I had no idea the tapes would trigger Lace. I thought she would have seen them already, and she’d know what to expect. And when I saw you gone – “

“How is Lace?” I interrupt. I don’t want to have to explain why I left suddenly. 

“She’s fine now. The shootings in 8 . . . her fiancé was killed in one of them. She had been carrying his baby but miscarried a few days later.”

“Wow.” I feel bad for judging Lace so harshly before. Maybe that’s why her mind went to my rumoured miscarriage when the subject of children came up when we first met. She knew how it felt. “Did you know all this?”

Peeta shakes his head. “No, it was the first I’d heard of it.”

I don’t know how to respond. It seems a big thing not to tell someone you’ve supposedly grown close to. But perhaps it’s a coping mechanism. We all have them. Lace doesn’t seem the type to dwell on unhappy times. And it’s not like they’d be a big exchange of stories about previous relationships between them. Peeta can’t remember his. Except false memories planted by the Capitol, that is. 

“Anyway, I should have realised that this is upsetting for you too. I’m sorry that I was too pre-occupied with Lace to be of any use. I know you’re doing this for me and the least I can do is make it as easy for you as possible. Lace really had no business being there. This doesn’t involve her and I should never have allowed her to stay. I want you to know that I’ve told her not to come next time, for everyone’s sake.” 

Peeta’s evidently attributed my walking out to having being overcome from emotion. Which I was, but not for the reason he thinks. I guess I ought to feel relief that he hasn’t guessed why, but I’m also saddened by it. Misread, yet again. 

“What did Lace say?” I ask.

“She came around to it,” he says after a pause. Lace wasn’t happy then. 

“Do you think there’ll be more of those tapes? Ones that weren’t shown on TV?” Peeta asks. I hear apprehension in his voice. I’d asked myself the same question. Who knows what recordings the Capitol made.

“There might. We always assumed that we were under some kind of surveillance. Audio, at least. There may be film. I don’t know.”

“I mean of when I was captured.” 

I turn sharply to look at him. He’s in profile, looking down at his clasped hands. Naturally his thoughts would go to the torture and I’m reminded again of what a huge undertaking this is for him. “I doubt it. Snow wouldn’t have filmed anything incriminating. He was careful to cover his tracks so I don’t think it’s something you should worry about. In any case, Dr Aurelius won’t send anything you can’t handle. We need to trust him.”

Peeta nods, and we lapse into silence. 

I start to shiver in the chilly air and I wrap my arms around myself to rub some warmth into them. This seems to rouse Peeta.

“You’re cold,” he says. He takes off his jacket, and before I can stop him, he’s laid it around my shoulders. 

“Thanks,” I say, clutching the material around me and wishing it were his arms. My mind goes back to the first time we visited the roof garden in the training centre. He had given me his jacket then too. Why is it, in only looking back, that I can see all the little romantic gestures that Peeta did for me? Probably because even if I did, I’d have thought there was an ulterior motive behind them. I suppose it’s Lace who gets them now. 

“So, do you have any questions about the tape?” I ask. “Did it jog any memories?”

He considers it for a moment. “I actually remembered a fair bit of it. I don’t think the Capitol altered this one. But I also felt a lot of anger as I watched it, and it’s the same kind the Capitol exploited. Anger towards you. Did anything happen, beyond the shooting?” 

My stomach sinks. After what I had to confess last week, I was hoping for something more positive this time. From faking it to Gale. Could this get any worse?

I take a breath. Be honest, I think. _Be honest._ “Yes, there was something. After we went inside. Well, actually on the day we started the tour. But you found out that day.” 

I pause here, waiting to see if this information sparks any memories. But Peeta says nothing, so I continue. “Snow came to see me, just before the tour began. The trick with the berries – some people in the districts viewed it as an act of defiance rather than an act of love. It caused a lot of unrest and Snow was concerned that it could lead to open rebellion. I was to convince everyone that our love was real. He threatened to harm our families if I didn’t co-operate. I told Haymitch about it as soon as I could, but we didn’t tell you. I guess he didn’t want to worry you with it. But after what happened in the square, there was no choice. You were pretty mad that we hadn’t told you.”

“You and Haymitch had this system, that I wasn’t part of. I remember that,” says Peeta. “It wasn’t a good feeling, being left out in the cold.” 

“No,” I agree, thinking of how things have changed. Now it’s me who’s often the third wheel. The difference between a working partnership and peacetime friendship, I guess. Because we’re alike, Haymitch and I can often communicate with non-verbal cues. Yet Peeta and Haymitch get along better. 

“There’s something else.” _Be honest._ “Snow also threatened Gale. He knew he wasn’t my cousin and that we went into the woods together. Somehow, he had learned about a kiss between Gale and me. I think he wanted me to know that he was always watching.”

Peeta says nothing at first. It’s dark now and I can’t see his expression in the dim light. I hold my breath as I wait for his response. “He was your boyfriend.” He says it flatly, as if confirming an established fact. 

“No,” I say emphatically. “Gale was never my boyfriend.” I twist around to face him, to encourage him to look at me. I need to get him to understand. I may never have another chance. _Be honest. _“But, before going into the Games, there was the beginning of something. I think I might have had a bit of a crush on him. Just something at the back of my mind, that I never expected to go anywhere. You see, I didn’t want a boyfriend because I didn’t want to marry or have children. I was too afraid of losing people.__

____

____

“The morning of the day we were reaped, Gale talked of us running off together; to escape 12 and live in the woods. At the time, I thought nothing of it. But later I wondered if he was hinting that there could be more between us. When I came back from the Games, I thought we’d just go on being friends, like before. But then Gale kissed me just as we were coming out of the woods. That’s the kiss Snow found out about.” 

“Did you like him kissing you?” The question startles me. For a moment I’m transported to District 13 and a hijacked Peeta similarly questioning me, but there’s none of the hostility. Just curiosity. I think I’d prefer hostility. At least that way I’d know he cares. 

_Be honest._ “I don’t know. I think I was confused by it more than anything. The next time I saw him, I had a speech ready about not wanting a boyfriend, but Gale acted like nothing had happened so I never got to make it. But it changed things between us. I kissed him a few more times after that. Once as an apology after he was whipped and another time when he was sad that I hadn’t given him an answer. And after you were hijacked. I thought you’d always hate me and it didn’t matter anymore. Gale wasn’t happy with it. He said it was like kissing someone who’s drunk. And that’s the extent of it.” _There, above and beyond._

When there’s no response, I keep talking to fill the silence. I’m disconcerted by it. It’s impossible to know what he’s thinking. He hasn’t looked at me once. “It would never have worked between us. Even if things hadn’t ended as they did. We were too much alike. It would have been like Haymitch and me getting together.”

Peeta laughs. “That’s hard to imagine. “ He glances my way for the first time, smiling slightly. “Thanks for telling me, Katniss. It’s certainly not how the Capitol painted it.”

“No, I suppose not.” I want so much to tell him that I couldn’t be with Gale because I was falling in love with him. But I can’t. Not yet. It’s only a little more than a month ago that he told me he wasn’t in love with me and told me not to come over at night when I had a nightmare. For all I know, his feelings for me haven’t changed. Not for the first time I wonder how we could have come to this. Once we would have died for each other. 

Suddenly I get to my feet. “I just thought of something. Wait here.” I hand Peeta back his jacket. “Don’t move.”

I dash inside and race down the hall. In the study, I ransack drawers and cupboards. I know it’s here somewhere. At last, I find it, on top of a tall shelf. I drag up a chair to lift it down. The box isn’t heavy, having only a few small items in it. Once I have what I want, I re-join Peeta. 

“Here,” I say, as I place the locket in his hand. “This was your token in the Quell. You gave it to me.”

Peeta examines the gold disc with the Mockingjay emblem. He shakes his head. “I don’t remember it, I’m sorry.”

I reach over to run my thumb along the catch and the disc springs open to reveal a locket with a photograph of my mother and Prim on one side, and of Gale on the other.

“Why would I have this as my token?” he asks, puzzled. “It doesn’t make any sense.”

“Not now, but it might later,” I say. “Keep it, maybe it will help.”

“Well, OK, if you’re sure.” He slips the locket into a pocket of his jacket. “I’d better go now. I’ve kept you out long enough. You should get inside before you freeze.” 

“See you next week, Katniss,” he says, as he walks off. 

“See you,” I call after him. And only you. Maybe it hasn’t been such a bad day after all.


	7. Chapter 7

Haymitch scowls when he sees what we’re having for dinner. “Why didn’t you get the chicken pie?”  
  
“Because we sold all the chicken pies, that’s why.” I slam down the plate in front of him. “This is what was left. If you don’t like quiche, then don’t eat it. I don’t care either way.”  
  
I reach for the bowl in the centre of the table and pile salad onto my plate. I’m in no mood for Haymitch’s grousing. It’s not like he’s paying for it.   
  
“Sheesh! What’s got your goat?” asks Haymitch, who is already shovelling quiche into his mouth. 

“People! I’m sick of them. Is it my fault if the beestings run out? If you turn up at the end of the day, just before closing, is it so surprising there’s none left? And then I have to be nice and apologise. For something I’m not responsible for. Idiot woman.”  
  
Haymitch laughs. “I knew when you took the job it wouldn’t last. I’m surprised you’ve lasted this long. What is it? A month? Just quit if you don’t like it.”  
  
“I can’t. Not yet, anyway. It’s too much like giving up. Besides, I like the people I work with.”   
  
“Life’s too short to stay in a job you hate,” says Haymitch. “You like the teacher job, don’t you? Do more of that.”  
  
“I might later on. If I’m asked.” I do like it at the school and the Matson’s seem pleased with the job I’m doing. And the way the school is growing, it won’t be long before one day a week won’t be enough to allow every child to have a turn in the woods. It’s just not safe to take large groups out there. But in the meantime, a fondness for my co-workers aside, there are benefits to staying at the bakery. Not least, as a distraction from the current situation with Peeta. It’s either fill my hours, or sink into despondency again.

“You’ll miss the free cakes if I leave,” I tell him. A selection of them is on the table for dessert. Two chocolate eclairs, a fruit tart and, Haymitch’s favourite, an apple pastry.   
  
“That I will. But my waistline won’t,” he replies, as he pats his stomach, which admittedly, has grown larger since our dinners started.   
  
“As if you’ve ever cared about your health,” I counter, thinking of how much alcohol he consumes.   
  
“I exercise.”  
  
“Bending the elbow doesn’t count.”  
  
“Humph,” grunts Haymitch. “Speaking of health, how’s it going with the boy?”

I shrug. “OK, I guess. He remembers some things. A lot more than I thought he did, actually.”  
  
“But?” Haymitch prompts.   
  
“I thought he’d remember . . . other things. The tapes Dr Aurelius sends doesn’t help. They’re of us acting for the cameras, or at some kind of odds with each other. Negative stuff. It just reinforces what the hijacking made him believe.”

Despite Lace’s absence for the last two tape viewings, there’s been no progress in my quest to get Peeta back. Except maybe for the seating arrangements. The single-seaters had been pushed to the far sides of the room with the two-seater placed squarely in front of the television, so there was no ambiguity about where I was to sit. There was no cuddling or hand-holding. There wasn’t even the slightest encroachment into the other’s space. Peeta sat with his hands tucked beneath his underarms, or clasped in his lap as if he didn’t know what to do with them. I fancied that he wanted to put them on me but I had made him self-conscious about it. Or maybe that’s wishful thinking.   
  
The tapes were bad. The first was of me dropping a tracker jack nest on him. I had to admit that it was as it appears– I was indeed trying to kill him. Peeta readily accepted my explanation that I thought he had joined with the careers and was out to kill me. But it hardly paints me as having his welfare at heart, let alone having tender feelings for him.   
  
The second was when I drugged Peeta with sleep syrup so he wouldn’t prevent me from going to the feast to get his medicine. Just before I left, I had remembered I was supposed to keep up the star-crossed lovers routine and gave him a long, lingering kiss goodbye. It’s so obvious to anyone watching closely that the kiss was a calculated move rather than a spontaneous, sincere one. Even down to the pretend tear I wiped from my cheek. I cringed when I saw it, terrified of what Peeta must be thinking. But when I glanced his way, all I saw was a complete lack of surprise. Worst of all, he didn’t even seem that sad about it.   
  
When he asked his questions, there was no way around it. Yes, Peeta. I did it for the camera. The only positive is that it led to a discussion of how I risked my life to save him and how I was only alive to do it because he had saved me first. But Peeta already knew about the feast. He was told of it in 13. What he doesn’t know is why I did it. And after seeing that tape . . . well, he couldn’t be blamed for thinking that I haven’t one scrap of romantic feeling for him. Perhaps he even thinks protecting each other is some kind of quid pro quo arrangement born of the Seam ethos of owing. You save me, so I save you. And that could be another reason for why he doesn’t want me in his guest room anymore. He couldn’t see the point of continuing it.

“He doesn’t remember that he’s in love with you, is that the real problem?” Haymitch asks.   
  
Shocked, I simply stare at him. I didn’t think he knew. He’s given every impression that he’s either ignorant of my feelings for Peeta or too absorbed with his own problems to care. I start to protest but he waves it away.

“Don’t bother denying it. Anyone with eyes to see could tell you loved him. I should know. I bear the marks.” He points to the faint white lines etched on the sides of his face. It’s where I raked him with my fingernails after I learned that Peeta had been left in the arena. “And then how you came back to life the day he returned to 12? Sweetheart, it’s all over your face. I think the only one who isn’t aware of it is Peeta.”

  
It’s all I can do not to slap him. Haymitch baited me over Peeta dating Lace. Said I must be glad that Peeta’s attentions are off me. Fought me when I announced my intention to distance myself from Peeta unless he tried to get his memories back. And now he says he knows that I loved Peeta all along? “But then why – “I begin.   
  
He puts up his hand in defence. “Yeah, I’m sorry. I thought goading you might force you to act, instead of hanging back and letting things happen. If you would just tell Peeta how you feel – “   
  
“I did.” I interrupt before he can go further. “He took it the wrong way. He thinks of me as some kind of family member. He’s told me to my face that he’s not in love with me anymore. More than once, in fact. And how awful it must be to have someone in love with you when you don’t feel the same way about them. And then there’s Lace . . . The only way I can see clear is for Peeta to get his memories back. Maybe he doesn’t feel that way about me anymore, memories or not. But I have to know. I can’t . . . I can’t move on until I do.”

One thing you can say about Haymitch is that he doesn’t embarrass you with soppy expressions of sympathy. He just listens to what you have to say and then gives you the best advice he can. Not that I’m always inclined to follow it.   
  
“Snow got to him more than I thought then,” he says. “He’d been so attached to you that I thought it would only take . . .well, it seems I was wrong. Of course, it could all be in the timing. And it does sound to me like he’s trying to convince himself more than anything but who knows what’s going on in his head these days. What concerns me most is that one day he’ll wake up from all this and find he’s caused so much damage, that there’s no going back.”

Peeta had said the same thing, although I doubt that he was thinking of me when he said it. But I know Haymitch is. What would be my breaking point? That line he’d have to cross, that being with him would be unthinkable? I’ve thought about this a lot and failed to come up with an answer. But I do know that the longer he is with Lace, the less faith I have in the strength and infallibility of Peeta’s love. Time isn't not only on my side, it’s not on Peeta’s either. Would he marry her? He might if things continue as they are. I don’t know if he’s slept with her. But he most likely has. Sometimes, on those rare occasions when I allow myself to think about it, I want to curl up with the agony of it. Has that been the end, that point of no return, and I haven’t realised it yet? Right now, it’s hard to see beyond the fact that Peeta is with another and I don’t have him. It consumes me, motivates nearly everything I do. 

Would it be fair of me then to pursue a relationship with him, if I can’t be sure that that point hasn’t already been reached? Because ignorant of his past he may be, there’s no denying that Peeta seems happy in his ignorance and happy with Lace. What if he does get his memories back and he loves me again but then I don’t want him because I can’t get past his relationship with her? That would be despicable on my part if the only reason he had for recovering his memories was that I had coerced him into it. If I do it certain in the knowledge that I’ll still want him because I love him, it makes me self-centred, but it’s forgivable. But it still won’t be for Peeta’s sake, but my own. There needs to be a better reason.   
  
“Then we have to stop him before he does,” I reply. “If it’s Lace he wants to be with, then he should make that decision with his eyes open. Peeta and I talked the night before the Games about what we wanted to achieve. I just wanted to survive it. But for Peeta, the most important thing was to stay himself. To show that the Capitol doesn’t own him. Don’t we owe it to him to help him do that?”  
  
“Even if we have to drag him kicking and screaming?”  
  
“Even then,” I say grimly. As content with the status quo as Peeta appears to be, I know that the real Peeta – the Peeta I’m fighting for – would want to get back to himself. No matter what.  
  
Haymitch helps himself to a chocolate éclair. I take a fruit tart before Haymitch eats them all. 

“Um, has Peeta said anything about me? I mean about how he feels about me?” Now that Haymitch knows everything, I might as well pump him for information. Peeta might have confided in him. I’ve overheard Peeta talking to him about Lace, whereas he rarely mentions her to me.   
  
Haymitch seems uncertain, but then he shrugs. “I suppose it won’t do any harm to tell you from Peeta’s point of view. And you should know what you’re facing. He says it was an illusion – a childhood crush that didn’t survive the harsh light of reality.”  
  
It’s worse than I thought then. I thought he merely didn’t remember what it felt to love me. But now I learn that he doesn’t think it was ever real. The devastation must show on my face, for Haymitch’s voice softens. “Sweetheart, if I didn’t think it was a load of horseshit, I wouldn’t have thought that the only thing you had to do was to tell him how you feel about him. I saw it all. The only illusion is what Peeta is telling himself. Okay?” 

I take a breath. “Okay,” I say, not sure that it makes it any better. It’s what Peeta believes that counts.

“Any last words of advice?” I ask.  
  
“Stay honest,” Haymitch tells me. “If you’re not truthful about the bad, then he won’t trust you to be truthful about the good. It will come eventually. Be ready for it.”  
  
I nod and take a bite of my fruit tart. What Haymitch says makes good sense. What’s on the tapes has to improve soon. I hope. There are times when I wonder what Dr Aurelius is trying to do to me. It’s as if he wants to drive Peeta and me even further apart. But I told Peeta to trust in him and it behoves me to do the same.

After Haymitch leaves, I trek upstairs to Prim’s room and sit on her bed. I come up here to talk to her about Peeta. In those dark days after the hijacking when I thought that Peeta would die insane and hating me, she was possibly the only one who had faith that Peeta would recover and come back to me. I try to remember it when the situation seems hopeless, but as the days go by and there’s no change, there are occasions when I’m tempted to simply give up. To let Peeta pursue the path he’s chosen while I do my best to find myself a new one. But then I remember the boy who was determined to defy the Capitol in the only way that was left to him. And that was not to let the Capitol make him into something he wasn’t. I owe that boy. In more ways than can possibly be imagined.

My eyes land on the primrose painting on Prim’s dresser. Right side facing the wall, one side of the frame broken. If the pearl represented the boy with the bread, this painting could represent the Peeta he is now. His true self hidden from view; his mind fractured. But not beyond saving.   
  
There’s some good news, Prim. I thought I was alone in this but I’m really not. Tonight, I learned that I’ve had an ally all along. But then Haymitch has always known about Peeta and me. Right after winning the games when he made sure to warn me to keep up the star-crossed lovers act, but not Peeta. “Don’t have to. Peeta’s already there,” he said. Peeta already in love and me on the way. Perhaps the situation is now reversed and it’s Peeta who’s not there yet but is on the way. I have to keep believing that.   
  



	8. Chapter 8

  
My hand hovers over the plate of cookies Peeta offers me. He’s baked an assortment. Chocolate, shortbread, jam-filled and gingerbread. I decide on the chocolate and take a bite. “Mm. This is really good. They don’t make cookies at the bakery.”  
  
“Yeah, I know,” replies Peeta. “That’s why I make them when you come around. Thought you’d like a change from buns and cakes.”  
  
“I do. But when did you visit the bakery to know that they don’t make cookies? I don’t remember seeing you.”

“I’ve called in a few times,” he says. “Usually on a Friday when I know you’re working at the school. I didn’t want to crowd you.”  
  
I feel my face redden at the implication. When I told Peeta that we have nothing more to say to each other, I didn’t intend that he’d have to go out of his way to avoid places that I might be. “I didn’t mean . . . that is, you shouldn’t stop yourself from doing something just to please me. Visiting the bakery is hardly crowding me.”  
  
“Do you really mean that?” he asks, hopeful expectation in his voice.  
  
“Of course, I do. You should go anytime you like.”  
  
Peeta’s face breaks into a relieved smile. “I was hoping you’d feel that way. I’ve been offered a job as a specialist cake decorator but I didn’t want to accept unless I knew you’d be okay with it. Flora told them of the cake I decorated for Annie and Finnick’s wedding and Cass said I could be just what they were looking for. And then I was invited into the kitchen to do a demonstration cake – and Katniss, the set up they have compared to my family’s bakery. Electric ovens instead of wood-fired ones, a whole wall of refrigerators, stainless-steel bench tops and so much room. I’m to have my own dedicated workspace . . .”  
  
And so Peeta continues, his face glowing with enthusiasm. Despite the potential awkwardness of us sharing the same workplace, I find myself smiling back. Clearly this has resonated and another puzzle piece to the identity of Peeta Mellark has fallen into place. A combination of baking and art; it’s such a natural fit for him. Totally unlike me and customer service. I figure that if it doesn’t work out between Peeta and me I should find it no hardship to look for another job. It’s probably what I’ll be doing someday soon anyway. 

Eventually, we settle down to watch the video. I hope the happy mood isn’t ruined by what we’re about to see. I’ve come to call these tape viewings as the “reading of the tape” because it evokes the same sense of dread and inevitability that preceded the reading of the card. That feeling when you know you’re about to get awful news but there’s nothing you can do about it. Thankfully, it won’t be like the old days with double the number of tributes, or a reaping from the existing pool of victors. But I can’t help but fear that out of all the film that was taken of Peeta and me, Dr Aurelius will choose something that suggests disdain, indifference or obvious acting on my part. It’s what he’s sent so far.   
  
Peeta presses a button on the remote and Caesar Flickerman fills the screen. He’s standing centre stage, microphone in hand. Since he’s sporting powder blue hair and matching make-up this must be our first Games. So far, so good. This was so early in our relationship that we hadn’t done anything yet that could possibly be said to define it. The tension in my muscles eases a little and I even feel a little optimistic. Maybe we’ve turned a corner from all those compromising tapes.

After telling a few jokes, Caesar introduces the girl tribute from District 1. That was Glimmer, beautiful and sexy in a gold see-through gown. So unlike - BAM! Suddenly Glimmer morphs into a grotesque, swollen thing with foul green liquid bursting from a hundred trackerjack stings. I blink and look again to reassure myself that it’s just a trick of my imagination. The all too familiar signs of an anxiety attack starts to rise in my chest but I manage to tamp it down by concentrating on the next tribute to be interviewed. I steal a glance at Peeta and it’s clear that he struggles with a memory associated with Glimmer too. What it is, I don’t know.   
  
Each interview lasted three minutes. I tick them off as they appear. There’s Cato, big and hulking; a predator and proud of it. I push away memories of how he died before they can take hold. And Foxface from District 5. I try not to think of her emaciated body being lifted into the hovercraft but how much I admired her cleverness at the feast. And then comes Rue, my little ally, who I couldn’t save and pain stabs at me is if it were yesterday. And not just for Rue, but for every innocent child she represents. The children who were forced to compete in the Games. The children who died the night 12 was bombed. The Capitol children who burned outside Snow’s mansion. And Prim.   
  
I must gasp. Or something, for I feel my hand taken possession of by a large male one.   
  
“Katniss, do you want to stop?” Peeta regards me with such concern that I have an almost overwhelming impulse to throw myself onto his chest and take refuge there. I imagine his arms enfolding me, pulling me close. And that could have happened too before I had given him my ultimatum. But now he’s too self-aware of any unconscious demonstrations of affection to initiate it, and I’m no longer willing to settle for crumbs.   
  
“No. I’m okay. Let’s keep going,” I say, as I pull my hand free and turn my gaze back towards the television.  
  
Thresh returns to his seat after his interview and then my name is announced. Cinna’s magic had turned me into a dazzling, otherworldly figure in a jewelled gown that flashed yellow, red and white with accents of blue. But although my gown evoked the power and beauty of a firestorm, my demeanour didn’t. I was almost petrified with nervousness and it showed.   
  
Caesar asks what impresses me about the Capitol. I struggle for an answer, but then my eyes go to someone in the crowd and I visually relax. It was Cinna. _Be honest,_ he told me when I confessed my worry to him that I didn’t know how to present myself. In Haymitch’s opinion, I was as charming as a dead slug. But Cinna saw a side to me that Haymitch hadn’t. A side that was appealing and was admired for her spirit.   
  
“The lamb stew,” I blurt out. And some of the audience laugh. And then I see myself act very un-Katniss like, or at least, not as I see myself. Yet I was being myself, which is strange. Giggly, girly, artless. I twirl for the cameras and collapse into giggles. But when Prim’s name is mentioned, I’m all deadly determination. Is that what others saw in me, a reason why I was chosen to be the Mockingjay? Someone like themselves, to whom they could relate, with an unexpected core of steel? I can only wonder.  
  
Peeta’s the last to be interviewed. And he’s so handsome and charming, it wouldn’t surprise me if every teenage girl in Panem hadn’t instantly made him her latest celebrity crush. Lace would have seen this. Perhaps on a large television screen in some community hall in District 8 for it was mandatory viewing. It’s even possible she was infatuated before she met him for real. Not that I can blame her if she was. He certainly cuts a romantic figure as he and Caesar banter back and forth. He has the audience eating out of his hand.   
  
Caesar asks if has a girlfriend back home. I risk a nervous glance at the Peeta beside me. I search his face for any sign that it sparks a memory but I don’t see one. It has got his interest though. He leans forward, his eyes intent on the screen.   
  
I turn back to the television. The onscreen Peeta hesitates. That’s the cue for Caesar to delve deeper. Peeta describes a girl he’s had a crush on ever since he can remember who didn’t even know he was alive until the reaping. The solution is simple, explains Caesar. You win the Games and then she can’t refuse you. Peeta disagrees. Winning won’t help because the girl came with him. That was me.   
  
The camera pans between Peeta and me and then goes to split-screen. His face is beet red, his eyes downcast, his expression one of resigned sadness. Mine is just as red, eyes fixed on the floor, my expression one of disbelieving shock. The crowd roars its sympathy and support. Peeta, with his tragic tale of hopeless love, had blown the rest of us out of the water. I recall how I furious I’d been. Peeta had used me to gain audience sympathy and had undermined me in the process!   
  
The anthem plays and we file off stage. Credits begin to roll but then it switches to the tributes and their entourages piling onto the elevators. Since it’s of poorer quality and seems to have been filmed from a fixed position above our heads, I figure this must be from a surveillance tape. I had taken a different car from Peeta but the person who had prepared this had spliced the tape from the elevators together so that it goes from me to Peeta, and then back to me again. Peeta is pale with trepidation. I’m pale with suppressed fury. I reach the 12th floor first and the doors close. But as Peeta exits his car, the doors remain open just long enough for the camera to record me shoving my hands against his chest and knocking him backwards. The tape ends.   
  
There are a few moments of silence before Peeta seems to gather himself sufficiently to turn off the television. He looks down at his hands. One of them has a double crescent of faint white scars.   
  
I clear my throat. “That wasn’t caused by the urn. I think they had mostly healed up before the next morning with the special medicine they had. In any case, the full-body polish would have got rid of any marks.”   
  
Peeta nods, but he continues to gaze at the scars as if there’s a memory contained within them that he can’t quite reach.

He gives a rueful laugh. “It’s just as well I didn’t make a move on you before we were reaped. That would have been a massive waste of time. It made you pretty angry, huh?”   
  
“Yes, but not for the reason you think. I thought you were trying to get an advantage over me. Get the audience onside and make me look weak. I didn’t know you were trying to help me. Haymitch set me straight.”   
  
“I remember scraps of it,” he says, raising his head for the first time. “I thought you were mad because of Gale. That he’d get the wrong idea and think you felt the same way.”  
  
“That’s right,” I say, my hopes starting to rise as they do whenever he shows signs that his memories are coming back. “And then you said that he’d recognise a bluff when he saw it.”   
  
Peeta nods, considering it. Perhaps now he’ll know why we had misunderstood each other’s motives. Why I had thought he was acting along with me as part of the star-crossed lover’s routine.   
  
Suddenly his face brightens as if something he’s agonised over finally has an answer. “Yes, that’s what it was. It was a bluff! It makes sense. That’s why I went from having such strong feelings to not having them. I’ve confused what was made up with what was real. Even now I . . .” He seems doubtful for a moment before he gives his head a shake. He turns to me with a dazzling smile. “You know what this means, don’t you?”   
  
“No,” I whisper. A knot has formed in my throat and threatens to choke.   
  
“We can truly be friends now. None of that unrequited love business making it awkward between us.” He looks at me with wonderment. “That saying – “the truth shall set you free” – it’s true, isn’t it? And it’s thanks to you. If you hadn’t insisted that I confront my past then I’d have gone on believing what had never been real in the first place.” He shakes his head disbelievingly at his former stupidity. “You’re a marvel, do you know that?”   
  
“I’m really not,” I manage to get out. I want to cry. But I also want to punch him really, really hard. I want to kick him viciously in the groin and scrape my nails down his face and watch the blood flow. He’s HAPPY! Haymitch had told me that Peeta thought his crush for me had been an illusion, but now it seems that even the illusion had been an illusion. It was all a bluff! I have to get out of here.  
  
“I’m sorry to cut this short, but I have people to meet in town. I think we’ve covered it all, anyway. I’ll see you next week. Thanks for the cookies.”   
  
Peeta hardly has time to say goodbye, I’m out the door so quickly. The walk from his house to mine only takes a few minutes. Nonetheless, it takes all my self-control not to break into a run. I need somewhere to hide. Fast.   
  
In my bedroom, I tear off the shorts and halter top I had painstakingly chosen to wear today. They weren’t really suitable for the cooling weather, but they showed my figure to its best advantage. How futile it was trying to look attractive for Peeta. On my bed are the clothes I wore this morning – khaki trousers, a t-shirt and my father’s hunting jacket. I hurriedly put them on. The closet has never looked more inviting. I push aside the hangers of clothes, curl into a corner and pull the door closed. And for a few blessed hours, I shut everything out.


	9. Chapter 9

As soon as I enter the bakery, I can tell something is afoot. The store appears empty even though we’re about to open, and I can hear voices raised in excitement coming from the back. It’s there I find Cass, Julius, Cornelia and Flora clustered around a paper Cass holds in his hand.  
  
As usual, it’s Cornelia who speaks first. “Cass has been asked to create and oversee the dessert course for the Mayor’s inauguration party. And the bakery has been asked to supply the bread.”  
  
“Congratulations,” I say. “That’s wonderful news. I hear it’s going to be big.” Or big by 12 standards anyway. I got an invitation in the mail yesterday. Haymitch said that all prominent citizens will get one. My first inclination is to say no. I have a dislike for these kinds of events from all the Capitol parties that Peeta and I were forced to attend. But I’m certain Peeta will ask Lace and I don’t want to appear as some sad hopeless case by either staying at home or having Haymitch as my date. The trouble is that I had thought of asking Cass. Now who? 

“Yeah, it’s a big event but we’ve done bigger. And Cass has done feasts so he knows what’s needed to cater to a crowd,” says Cornelia.   
  
“Maybe opera,” says Cass who’s already thinking of the menu.  
  
“What’s that?” asks Flora.   
  
“It’s a dessert of layered almond sponge flavoured with chocolate and coffee and then topped with chocolate ganache,” he explains. “We can make it here and then transport it in slabs to the venue to be portioned and given the final decoration there.”   
  
Coffee. Yuck. “It sounds delicious,” I say. Maybe I can get him to change his mind. Or at least have an alternative.   
  
The subject changes to what type of bread they’ll make and I judge it a good time to get back out front. Someone has to work around here. Flora follows and together we ready the store for opening and then unlock the door and put the open sign up. There’s the usual early morning rush and I barely notice when Peeta arrives and slips past us to get started on the cake orders. It’s only a few weeks since he started here, but demand for his cakes has increased to the point that the hours he works at the bakery will soon supersede the hours he works at his signwriting business. I don’t think it will be long before he’s full-time and the signwriting is abandoned. I know he prefers to decorate cakes than paint signs because he told me. Not that there’s been a lot of conversation between us lately unless it’s directly related to the tapes Dr Aurelius sends.   
  
After Peeta’s joyful revelation that his crush on me was apparently nothing more than a scam invented to give us an advantage in the Games, I haven’t had the inclination to give him any more than I feel obliged to. I haven’t felt so disheartened over Peeta since those miserable days when he was first hijacked. At least I was his primary focus then. I thought there couldn’t be anything worse than being told I was no longer loved. But then Haymitch told me that he believes it had all been an illusion. Now he’s taken it one step further. It was an illusion of an illusion. I don’t know what I am to him. The female equivalent of Haymitch? Someone he unconsciously gravitates to because of shared experiences? 

The following Saturday, I didn’t bother to dress up for Peeta. I wore the clothes I’m comfortable in – my usual khaki pants and T-shirt – my hair in a simple braid down my back and no make-up. I refused the cookies he offered with the excuse that I’ve been eating too much sugar lately. And when I sat on the couch beside him, I kicked off my boots, pulled my knees to my chest and wound my arms tightly around them. No chance of any sympathetic attempts at hand-holding if he can’t easily get to them. 

The tape was of the tributes parade. Both of them. We certainly dazzled in the costumes Cinna and Portia designed for us. But the most marked difference between the two parades was in our attitudes. The parade for our first games was shown first. There’s me, smiling, waving, throwing kisses to the crowd. Haymitch later asked where I had pulled that cheery, wavy girl from. But I was just being me, which surprised even myself. I felt Peeta’s eyes on me. Maybe he was puzzled too. There hasn’t been a lot for me to be cheery and wavy about since I got back to 12.   
  
For the Quell, we were told to be contemptuous and unsmiling. To be above it all. That was me being myself too. And then it was Peeta being unlike himself, barely deigning to spare the crowd a glance. Yet I know he wasn’t acting either.   
  
When the tape ended Peeta asked his questions. Despite a concerted effort, I couldn’t help being short with him. His expression was puzzled, questioning, and maybe a little hurt. Not that I cared. Yes, yes, it was for the cameras. Isn’t that what you want to hear?   
  
And the next week, Dr Aurelius sent a propo tape from District 13. The one where I talk about how I met Peeta for the first time - in the rain, on the verge of starvation, all hope gone. How he took a beating to give me the loaves of bread that saved us. And that we didn’t speak until years later when we were on the train to the Games. “But he was already in love with you,” said Cressida off camera. “I guess so,” I replied. The conversation turned to how I’ve coped with our separation. “Not well,” I said. The tape ended there, although I had gone on to talk about the Capitol. I guess that part has no relevance for Peeta’s memories.   
  
“It was kept up after my capture then?” he had asked.   
  
“It was used as a propaganda tool. For audience sympathy.” And it’s true. It was. It wasn’t an act by then, of course. But that’s not the question Peeta asked.   
  
“But the bread story is true. I remember that.”  
  
“Yes. That was true.” 

There were no more questions. I assume he was happy with it. Anything to confirm what he wants to believe.  
  
Last Saturday, it was the marriage proposal. Peeta, on one knee, professing his great love and then begging me to marry him. And me accepting, of course. It was all fake, Peeta. As fake as fake can be.   
  
“Whose idea was it?” he had asked.   
  
“It was mine. I thought it might convince everyone that our love was real and put a stop to the unrest in the Districts.” There Peeta. The honest truth. It wasn’t even you who suggested we marry. Happy? 

Actually, when I think back on it, Peeta didn’t seem that happy. Maybe because his hope for us to be great friends, now that we’re supposedly unencumbered by an awkward history of unrequited love, hasn’t worked out as well as he might have hoped. Try as I might, I can’t completely hide my hostility towards him. It’s my armour and I have no intention of taking it off. 

Around mid-morning, there are fewer customers and the sounds of conversation drift out from the kitchen. Julius, Cass and Peeta talk animatedly about bread-making techniques. Cornelia joins in occasionally. Cass and Peeta congratulate each other on what a great team they make with Cass’s frosting and Peeta’s skill with cake decorating. Peeta fits into this environment like a hand to a glove. Yet aside from making some connections to the people who work here, I’m an uneasy fit. Peeta is clearly the favourite. And why wouldn’t he be? He’s the one with the valuable skill. He’s the one who can charm the birds out of the trees.   
  
By the time Cornelia comes to serve behind the counter so I can take my lunch break, I’m feeling very sorry for myself. I go to my favourite spot - a bench beneath a large, shady oak that somehow survived the bombing, in a small park adjacent to the school grounds. My lunch is two cheese buns and some fruit brought from home but I have little appetite for it, so engrossed I am in gloomy thoughts.   
  
“Can’t stay away from the place, huh?”   
  
I look up and there’s Max coming my way. He sits down beside me. “Are you going to eat that?”  
  
I sigh and hand him a cheese bun. Max takes a bite.  
  
“What’s wrong?” he asks. “I’ve known horses with faces that aren’t that long.”  
  
“Know a lot of horses, do you?” My tone is caustic but my lips twitch. We tease and annoy each other but it’s all in good fun. Few people can shake me out of a bad mood quicker than Max. And put me into one too.   
  
“I’ve known a few. I like mules better, though, stubborn though they are. They remind me of you.”   
  
“Haha.” A compliment wrapped in an insult. But somehow, he’s managed to hit on the very thing I’m miserable about and made me feel better. He makes no secret that likes me, shortcomings and all. And I know he likes me better than Peeta. He calls Peeta “Psycho Boy” in spite of my efforts to get him to stop. I think the fact that it annoys me has an added charm for him.  
  
“So what is it? Has sharing a workplace with Psycho Boy started to wear thin?” 

“No,” I say, even though there’s some truth to it. “And stop calling him that. He’s not a psycho.” Or a boy either. Peeta and I left childhood behind a long time ago. I hand Max the remaining cheese bun. I’m not going to eat it. “I don’t know if I’m suited to working in a shop, that’s all. I’ve been thinking of reducing my hours if the Carters agree.” I know Sateen would like to take them up. She’s helping her brother save money to start up a clothing factory.   
  
“Good. You can put in more time at the school then. One day a week isn’t enough the way the school’s growing. And Moira can do with a hand with the junior school too. You’re a natural at it, you know, teaching. My parents said they’d like to take you on full-time eventually. And they can assist with training if needed.”   
  
My spirits perk up immediately. I do like teaching and it’s something I can make a long-term career. Not since my hunting days when I provided for my family have I had an occupation I can take pride in, and I’ve missed it.   
  
“Yeah, I’d like that. Thanks. I’ll ask if I can reduce my hours at the bakery when I get back. I’m sure they’ll be fine with it.” I suppose I could simply resign. It’s what I’ll do eventually. But in the meantime, I like the people I work with, still need to keep occupied doing something, and I don’t want to give Peeta the impression that his presence pushed me out.   
  
My appetite restored; I regret giving away my cheese buns. But there’s still an apple and a banana to eat. I set to work peeling the banana. Suddenly an idea comes to me.  
  
“Max, I was wondering if you’d do me a favour. The Mayor’s inaugural dinner is coming up and I need a date.”  
  
“And you want me to find you one?”   
  
I’m tempted to throw the banana peel at him. “No, I’m asking you to be my date. Strictly as friends, of course.”  
  
“Of course. Not going with Peeta then?”  
  
“No,” I say, as casually as I can. “He’ll probably take Lace.” Like most people, Max had assumed that Peeta and I were still together. Peeta’s defection to Lace is not something I like to talk about, so Max has only been given information on a need-to-know basis. But he could have picked up more from local gossip.   
  
“I see,” he says in a voice that implies that he sees a great deal. “I have one question before I accept. Is this an exercise in making Psycho Boy jealous? Because I want to know if I should be prepared in case I incur his wrath, like that poor guy he pushed into a pod that time.”  
  
I do my best to tamp down my irritation. Unfortunately, Max’s distrust of Peeta isn’t uncommon. The incident to which Max refers was broadcast across all of Panem. Not to mention that Mitchell had come to my defence after Peeta had tried to bash my brains out with his gun. “It was an accident and Peeta was hijacked then, and not responsible. I assure you that you’ll be perfectly safe, jealous or not.” If I should be so lucky, that is. Peeta’s too besotted with Lace to feel any jealousy over me. This is all about salvaging some pride.   
  
“All I’m saying is that I’m up for it if you are,” he says, as he nudges his shoulder against mine. I scowl at him, just as he intended. 

“What I want from you is to behave yourself and not embarrass me,” I tell him. 


	10. Chapter 10

  
I turn my head to the side to get a look at the timer as it ticks down the minutes. Half an hour to go. And then, once this white goo is rinsed off, there are exfoliating and moisturising creams to follow. The thick white ointment, combined with the heat, makes my skin itch like crazy. Only I can’t get at it to scratch. I’m encased in a long metal tube, almost like a casket, with a hole at one end for my head to poke through. Octavia calls it a cellular regeneration chamber. I call it a torture chamber. She and Flavius brought it from the Capitol at great expense. They hope it will form one of the mainstays of their business. 

But at least it’s the last of the skin treatments, and while I had my doubts, it’s been surprisingly successful. The skin tone has evened out and there’s no difference now between the old skin and the grafts. And where it had looked slightly melted in places has smoothed out quite a bit too. Octavia tells me only a full-body polish would fix it completely, but I’m happy with the result.   
  
A spot on my right thigh starts to itch, but even by extending my hand out as far as it will go, I can’t reach it. Another itch springs up on the back of my shoulder. Again inaccessible. With concentration, I ignore them until they go away. But then it’s my left ankle. A travelling itch. I try to nap using the relaxation techniques Dr Aurelius taught me but it’s hard to drift off when there’s itching inside the chamber, and noise from outside it. Snatches of conversation and the hum of hair dryers easily penetrate the thin curtain that covers the opening to the alcove. After a slow start, business at the salon is booming. You’d think they’d be able to afford thick draperies by now, if not an actual door.   
  
Flavius and Octavia keep up a steady stream of patter. They tell me it’s a requirement in the beauty industry. Customers seem to expect it. And even if the customer is disinclined to talk, they still converse between themselves, talking mostly of inconsequential things. However, they have at least one chatty customer today. Her voice had been partially drowned by a hairdryer, but now that it’s been turned off, I know who it belongs to. A peal of pearly laughter confirms it.   
  
“My boyfriend told me that none of it was real. It was all about putting on a show and being entertaining to get sponsors. Everyone had an angle. The brainy one, the sexy one, the arrogant one and so on. The star-crossed lovers were made up too, to get sponsors. It was all a big hoax but not many people know that,” says Lace.  
  
“No, it wasn’t,” chimes in a female voice with a District 12 accent. I recognise the voice, but I can’t quite place it. “I don’t know about all the others but the star-crossed lovers were real. I was in the same year as them at school.” Of course, Leevy! She was a neighbour of ours in the Seam who made it to 13 after 12 was bombed. Evidently, she’s returned to 12 to live. “Katniss kept to herself, but Peeta was always staring at her. We wondered why he didn’t try to talk to her, but he probably thought she was with Gale. Most of us did. But then, Merchant seldom mixed with Seam unless it was at the slag heap and that wasn’t Peeta’s style. In 13, she broke down over what Snow was doing to him and he was only rescued because she couldn’t perform as the Mockingjay. I also heard she had a pearl she carried around in her pocket – the same one he gave to her in the arena.”

“It’s true,” says Octavia, “about the pearl.” I momentarily fear that Octavia will admit to being on my prep team. In the districts, anyone who was associated with facilitating the Games risks ostracism at best. But Octavia is smarter than I gave her credit for. “My cousin knew one of Katniss’s prep team. She says they often shared a bed. And once she actually walked in on them, cuddling together. Maybe it started as a hoax, but it didn’t end that way.”  
  
“See,” says Leevy. “I’m sorry to say, but when it comes to Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark, your boyfriend knows shit.”

There are a few moments of silence before Lace responds. She sounds rattled. “But he’s not with her now. Whatever it was, it didn’t last.”  
  
“Well, Snow did a number on him, that’s for sure. Cracked his brain real good. But what if it all comes back to him? That’s what I’d be afraid of if I were his girlfriend,” Leevy says.   
  
“I guess it’s fortunate then that you’re not,” says Lace tersely. “Flavius if you don’t mind, I think I’ll reschedule for the colour. I really should get back to the shop.”  
  
“Yes of course” returns Flavius. “I’ll make you another appointment.”  
  
Nothing more is said until the door opens and then clicks shut.  
  
I hear sympathy in Leevy’s voice. “It’s for her own sake. Nothing good is built on a lie.”  
  
Except for Peeta and me. No, I remind myself, it was only half a lie. Peeta was genuine. And then it became real for me too.   
  
The timer goes off and Octavia comes in to release me from this contraption, rinse off the cream and then apply another. While she works, she excitedly tells me that Venia and her family are moving to 12 and she’s to join her and Flavius in the salon. I hardly hear her. So that’s what Peeta told Lace! That it was all a hoax. I suppose it’s not a surprise. Not from what Peeta himself has told me. And he hasn’t really told her anything that’s untrue. It’s just not the whole truth. So now she knows, but what she chooses to do with it remains to be seen. My situation remains the same. As Lace said, he’s not with me now. He’s with her. It’s what Peeta believes that counts. And even if Peeta’s memories return it doesn’t mean that his feelings for me will too.   
  
The following Saturday I’m at Peeta’s house as usual. I don’t have high hopes. If Dr Aurelius’ plan is to make it seem that our relationship was just one big act, I’m sure there’s still plenty of compromising tapes to choose from. 

When Peeta invites me in, his smile is tentative. I feel a flash of guilt. He’s probably uncertain about what kind of mood I’m in today. I have been prickly lately. And none of this is his fault. I know he’s mostly watching these tapes because I more or less coerced him into it. And he doesn’t know how much it hurts me that he’s happy to think that our romance had only been a scam for audience sympathy. If our positions were reversed, Peeta would be helping me all he could, not sulking and shutting me out half the time, no matter how much he was hurting. I really should try to be more patient and understanding, and not to take out my frustrations on him. Most of all, I should remind myself why I’m doing this. To help Peeta find himself. 

So I return Peeta’s smile with a dazzling one of my own. And when he asks if I’d like a drink before we start, I don’t wait to be served in the sitting room, but follow him into the kitchen as I used to do and take a seat on a stool at the bench. Peeta seems a little surprised, but also happily relieved.   
  
“Tea?” he asks, as he holds the kettle aloft.  
  
“Please,” I say. There’s a plate of cookies on the bench. Not an assortment this time. I guess he got tired of baking so many when I wasn’t eating them. “Mm, coconut. I love your coconut cookies. All your cookies, really. It’s a shame the bakery doesn’t make them.”  
  
Peeta fills the kettle from the tap. “I’ve mentioned it to Julius, but he says they’d rather concentrate on the items they have. Apparently, cookies didn’t sell very well in the Capitol. We sold a lot of them in my family’s bakery, though.”  
  
“Different clientele, I guess. More money to spend on cakes.” An idea comes to me. “Has he seen your decorated cookies, though? The ones you frost with floral designs? That could be a great addition to the cake decorating. Cookies for special occasions. That sort of thing.”  
  
“Yeah, I’ll mention it. Although the cake decorating keeps me busy. Have I told you? I’ve given up signwriting to work full time at the bakery.”  
  
“Wow. You must really like it then.”  
  
“What’s not to like? Doing what I love. Normal hours. And there’s no working with hot ovens all day since Cass is the one who bakes the cakes. You don’t mind me working there, do you? I sometimes worry that I’ve invaded your space. You were there first, after all.”  
  
“Of course not. Don’t be silly. I don’t think I’ll be at the bakery for that much longer anyway. I much prefer working at the school. I’ve even been asked if I’d like to teach in the classroom. Can you imagine that? Katniss Everdeen, school teacher, in front of a blackboard with a class full of kids?”   
  
“I can, actually. You’ve always had a natural rapport with children. Look how you were with Rue. And there’s Prim. Sometimes . . .” Peeta pauses here as if he’s not sure he should continue.

“Sometimes what?” I prompt.  
  
“It’s nothing really, just the way you were with Prim. You were more than sisters. Almost like mother and daughter. Sometimes, when I was watching you together, I thought what a great mother you’d make.”  
  
“Oh.” I’m not sure how to respond. There’s a dozen different thoughts and emotions to process. The pang of loss whenever I think of Prim. That Peeta had been observing Prim and me together and I had been totally unaware. That Peeta thought I’d be a good mother, even though I’ve been determined never to be one. And something else. “You remember back then?”  
  
“Yes. Most of it, I think. Nearly everything up until the Games, anyway. After that it’s patchy, or I can’t tell what’s real or not. But the tapes are helping a lot, although Dr Aurelius did warn me that I should be careful how I interpret.”  
  
“Sounds like good advice.” So, Dr Aurelius hasn’t abandoned me, after all! I feel enormously encouraged to learn that he’s working with Peeta to challenge any pre-conceptions he might have.   
  
Peeta fills the teapot from the kettle and places it on a tray alongside two mugs and a small jug of milk. Neither of us takes sugar in our tea. He nods his head towards the sitting room. “Shall we?”  
  
“Of course.” I take the plate of cookies and follow him into the room. It’s the usual set-up, a two-seater couch in front of the television set, a coffee table between them.   
  
“Can you get that?” asks Peeta, indicating a book that’s in the way of him setting down the tray.   
  
“Sure.” I put down the cookies and pick up the book. It’s of medium size with a fabric cover in a warm red colour.   
  
There’s an end table beside the couch and that’s where I put it. “What’s it about?” I open the cover and I see that it’s filled with clothing designs. No one has to tell me who’s drawn the illustrations. It’s clearly Peeta’s work.  
  
Peeta comes to stand beside me. “It’s Lace’s birthday present. Effie sent me the book and Lace made the cover. See, it’s like your family’s plant book. It’s where I got the idea from, actually. Lace wants to develop her own line of clothing. When we’ve finished the book, it will be kept in the shop for people to browse and choose a design from.”   
  
“What a good idea,” I say dully. Keep it together, I tell myself. Don’t think about it. If I do, I’ll lash out. I know I will. But oh, the agony! My most precious moments with Peeta given to Lace. I imagine them, probably here in this very room, heads cozily together as she describes what she wants him to draw and then Peeta sketching it for her. Just like Peeta and me when we worked on my family’s plant book while I was recovering from an injured foot. I wonder if she notices that special look he gets on his face when he concentrates, or how long his eyelashes are.   
  
I swallow my hurt and anger as best as I can and move over to the couch where I take up my defensive position. Knees pressed to my chest, arms around them, head down, eyes front.   
  
Peeta comes to sit beside me. “Katniss, is there anything wrong?”   
  
I shake my head. “Of course not. What could possibly be wrong?”  
  
“I’m sorry if the book reminded you of your father.”  
  
“It didn’t. Look, can we just watch the tape,” I say irritably.  
  
Peeta shoots me a worried look but seems to have made up his mind that it’s better to say nothing. No doubt he thinks I’m a moody bitch compared to Lace’s perpetual sunshine. And for once I don’t care. He reaches across for the remote and turns on the television.  
  
I blink in surprise at what fills the screen. It’s not the Games, or rebel propaganda, or District parties. It’s the roof. _Our_ roof. The rooftop garden at the training center. It’s late afternoon, going by the light, although there’s little to see. Just a dome-shaped room with a door, railings around the periphery and a garden on one side of the dome. After a few seconds, Peeta and I emerge through the door and walk over to the railing. You can see our lips move but there’s no sound.   
  
“Was this for the cameras?” asks Peeta.  
  
“No, we didn’t know about the cameras. We were mostly concerned about being overheard. It was windy on the roof. It’s why we went up there.” To my own ears, my voice sounds shaky. I feel Peeta’s eyes on me, questioning. But I keep mine forward, focused on the screen. It’s just my luck that the lack of sound means I’ll have to provide a running commentary. “This is during our first Games. We had just got back from the Tributes Parade. We wanted to talk about Lavinia. She – “  
  
“I remember Lavinia,” says Peeta, cutting me off. Snow had Lavinia tortured in front of him. Thankfully, she had died quickly. Unlike Darius, who lived long enough to have body parts cut off before he died. Stealing a glance at Peeta’s closed off face, it’s hard to know what he’s thinking. Nothing good, by the look of it.   
  
I nod and say nothing more about her. It’s a timely reminder of why I’m here, and that no matter how much I’m hurting now, it’s no comparison to what Peeta has suffered. I try to get a grip on my emotions and concentrate on what’s on the TV screen instead.   
  
The onscreen Katniss and Peeta walk over to the garden. “We thought the wind chimes would drown out our voices.” There’s nothing else to add, so I settle in to watch our youthful selves and ruminate on how much their lives would change. More that they could ever have imagined. And doesn’t it look so romantic, to anyone who didn’t know better. I stop to sniff at a blossom like a romantic heroine in one of those silly Capitol movies and Peeta takes off his jacket to place it around my shoulders, buttoning it at my neck.   
  
Eventually, we go inside, and I think that must be the end of the tape. But the screen is black for only a second and when the picture returns it’s of Peeta leaning against the rail, deep in thought. It’s night time, and although I don’t remember the roof being lit at night, everything is visible. It must have been filmed with a special camera like the glasses we had in the first Games for seeing in the dark. Peeta’s not alone for very long. I see myself walk across the tiled floor to stand beside him.  
  
“It was the night before we went into the arena,” I explain. “I couldn’t sleep so I went up to the roof to get some air. You were there for much the same reason.”  
  
Peeta says nothing but his eyes are intent on the screen. It seems to me, that unlike previous tapes, these are stirring something deep inside.   
  
The couple on TV talk amiably at first. But then it becomes increasingly agitated. It’s not a flat-out argument exactly, but you can see he’s angry about something, and she takes offense at it. Then she walks off and he’s back to his musings. But he’s not introspective as he was before, but annoyed and frustrated. It’s not long before he leaves too and the footage ends. But then the image returns. It’s bright sunshine in the film that follows and I know what’s to come next. I reach for the remote and press pause.   
  
“Are there any questions before we go further?” I ask.  
  
“We were talking about not letting the Capitol change who we are. To show that they don’t own us.” Peeta looks to me for confirmation.   
  
“Yes, that’s right. But I didn’t understand. Not then, anyway. I just wanted to survive the thing. But you wanted your death to mean something. Something noble. Something they couldn’t take from you.”   
  
He nods, considering it. “Yeah,” he says, and his face brightens like he’s had a breakthrough. “It’s why I came up with the star-crossed lover’s idea. It was something that would give my death meaning. And help you at the same time.”  
  
“Yeah,” I say. I turn my face back to the TV to hide my disappointment. What he says is true and I can’t deny it. That’s precisely the intention he went into the Games with. When will I learn not to get my hopes up?  
  
I press the play button to continue the tape. I see us burst through the dome door laden with food and blankets for our rooftop picnic. We’re relaxed and happy, making the most of the time left to us before we entered the arena once more. Neither of us thought we’d come out of it alive. I burrow my face against my knees. I don’t want to watch this. It’s too painful, remembering us as we once were. So young, so in love. If only I had fully appreciated it then. But we simply ran out of time.   
  
Peeta asks no questions while the tape runs. I only know it’s finished when I hear the clatter of the remote on the coffee table.   
  
“It almost looks like a date,” he says, with a queer sort of laugh. And then, after a pause, “Was it?”  
  
I take a breath. “I suppose it depends on what you mean by a date.” I have to admit that it’s ambiguous at best. There was no conscious thought we were having one. We played games, ate food, lay in the sun. I practised my weaving on the hanging vines. Peeta sketched me. I lay my head in his lap and he played with my hair while I made a crown of flowers. But there’s no kissing, no hugging. Nothing that really stands out that we were more than friends. Not to anyone who doesn’t want there to be, anyway. Like Peeta.   
  
I unwrap my arms from around my legs and slowly rise from the couch. I don’t want to hear him attribute it to being part of the act, or a blurring of the boundaries because of how we were forced to behave in public, or simply because that’s how friends interact.  
  
“We had only a short time left and we wanted to make the most of it. It was one of the best days of my life. It was a good day for you too. At least you said so. You said you wanted to freeze the moment and live in it forever.”  
  
My eye lands on Lace’s book. He’s given that memory away. And the swimming lessons. And for all I know, our rooftop date too. What next? The kisses on the beach? A gift of burned bread? All I know is that I’ve had more than enough for one day of the emotional upheaval a mere couple of hours in Peeta’s presence can do. The contrast between the Peeta on the tape, who loved me with every fiber of his being, and Peeta, as he is now, all this love and devotion going to another, is more than I can bear.   
  
“Look, I have to go now. I’m meeting some people in the town and I don’t want to be late.” It's an old excuse and one I’ve used before. But it’s a credible one. I try to get out most Saturday nights. “I’ll answer any questions next time, okay?”   
  
“Katniss,” I hear called after me. I pretend I don’t hear and close the door quickly behind me.


	11. Chapter 11

  
Reluctantly I hand over my fur-lined cape to the cloakroom attendant. It’s chilly in the antechamber. Every time someone comes through the doors, a blast of cold air comes with them. It may not be winter yet but it feels like it.   
  
“Where’s Arthur gone to?” I ask Max. I’m in a hurry to get into the main reception room where hopefully it will be warmer.  
  
“I think he went to the men’s – no, there he is.”  
  
Arthur is talking to the manager of the medicine factory. We’ve been here barely five minutes and he’s already networking. Sateen’s got Arthur all wrong. He’s not shy. He just doesn’t do small talk. Get him onto his favourite subject, business, and there’s no shutting him up. I give him a wave to attract his attention. He nods in our direction, says something to the manager, and makes his way over to us.  
  
“Sorry.” He offers his arm. “Shall we?”  
  
I link my arm through his and my other arm through Max’s. We make an impressive threesome. Max is dapper in a suit made by Arthur. When I had asked him to be my date, I didn’t stop to consider that a teacher from 5 is hardly likely to possess a dinner suit. The invitation expressly stated black tie. So, I took it upon myself to arrange one for him. And then Arthur, always on the lookout for opportunities, offered a suit free of charge if I could wrangle an invitation for him to attend tonight’s dinner. Easy! Every invitee could bring a partner. Arthur is technically Haymitch’s date.   
  
And doesn’t he scrub up well in one of his own creations? He’s every inch the successful businessman from the polished shoes, to the expensive suit, to the slick combed back hair. And Max is resplendent too. He’s really very good looking when I think about it. Tall, broad-shouldered and with classic features. A shame about that errant lock of hair though. I should have sent him to Flavius. Oh well, too late now.  
  
And I don’t look too shabby myself. I wear one of Cinna’s gowns. The very one that Johanna Mason wanted to reach through the screen and tear off my back. The deep blue velvet strapless number with the diamonds. They’re not natural diamonds, though. Cinna said they are synthetic but you can’t tell the difference. They form the bodice with its deep sweetheart neckline to fit snugly to the hips and then flare out to a full skirt with diamonds scattered to resemble stars against a midnight sky. Flavius has done my hair with curls cascading down my back and held to each side of my head with a diamond clip. I feel very glamourous.   
  
Inside, guests mill around while waiters move between them with trays of drinks. Tables are set around the periphery and in the centre of the room is a dance floor. I haven’t danced since Finnick and Annie’s wedding. That was the night I later went to see Peeta. He was strapped to a bed, hypodermic syringes at the ready, and staring at me as if were some kind of weird transforming mutant. And I was in pain from the wound to my side, on the defensive from his barbed comments, and inhibited by the doctors observing us from behind the one-way glass. But I should have said it. When he asked, “did you love me?” I should have said yes. Maybe it would have made the difference.

“Katniss?” I look up and see Max observing me quizzically. A waiter stands nearby. “Do you want a drink?”   
  
“Yes. Thanks.” I take a glass of champagne from the tray and the waiter moves away. “Where’s Arthur?” I scan the room but I can’t see him.  
  
“Over there.” Max point his glass towards the far side of the room. I can just make out Arthur in deep conversation with a prosperous middle-aged couple. “No flies on Arthur.”  
  
“None at all. But it’s what he’s here for.”  
  
“So, what does one do at these things, besides stand around holding a drink?” asks Max.

“You mingle. And hope they serve the food soon.” I take a gulp of the champagne. I don’t really like it but I need something to relax me. I was ill at ease as soon as I entered the room. Too many reminders of other parties, I guess. And Peeta should be around here somewhere. With Lace.   
  
“He’s behind you,” Max says. “With the mayor and his wife.” Without thinking, I quickly turn my head in that direction. Peeta is looking our way and gives a brief wave. I force a smile. Lace stands beside him elegant in a simple yellow lace gown, her mahogany hair falling in loose curls to her shoulders. My own gown, which I was so pleased with before, feels overdone and garish now. Ideal for a Capitol party, certainly. But not for a conservative district like 12.  
  
I turn back to Max. He has a smirk on his face. He leans down to whisper into my ear. “If it makes you feel better, Peeta’s eyes nearly bugged out of his head when he saw you come in. In that dress, and with not just one man, but two, he’ll be jealous in no time. If he’s not already, that is.”  
  
I scowl at him. “I told you. I’m not interested in making him jealous. In fact, I hardly think of him at all.”

Max almost chokes on his drink. “If you say so,” he says. But the knowing smile remains. I itch to slap it off.

We do the mingling thing, moving from one group to the next. Max is surprisingly good at it and it takes a lot of pressure off me. I’ve never been good at this. The exchange of pleasantries when meeting people for the first time. When Peeta and I were together, I’d let him do it for me and I’d just smile and answer questions when asked. I take a moment to sneak a glance at him. He has an arm loosely around Lace’s waist, looking rather bored, actually, as Lace and Arthur talk animatedly together. It’s probably about the clothing industry. I didn’t know they knew each other. But knowing Arthur better now, he probably knows all the business owners in 12. Peeta turns his head in my direction suddenly and I quickly avert my eyes, embarrassed to be caught looking.   
  
The food starts to come out and we take our seats. Arthur is seated next to Haymitch, of course, and I have fun watching the speculative glances that come their way. Haymitch thinks it’s a big joke and attempts to put an arm around Arthur who shoves him off. Everyone at the table dissolves into laughter, which garners the attention of nearby tables. I see Peeta look over, and it seems to me that he’d rather be here with us, rather than with the staid group of people he’s seated with.  
  
The first course is some kind of fish served in a buttery sauce with almonds. Braised goat with roasted vegetables is for main. And then the course I’ve been waiting for. Cass’s dessert. He decided to forego opera for something more ambitious. It’s a dome of crisp chocolate decorated with gold leaf. A little jug of hot chocolate sauce accompanies it and when it’s poured over the top, the chocolate melts to reveal a rich chocolate mousse beneath with chunks of preserved pear at the bottom. It’s absolutely delicious and I eat half of Max’s serve as well as my own. 

After dinner, many people move between tables to mingle some more. Max heads off to the bar to get more drinks, Arthur is back to his networking, and I’m left alone, my two dates otherwise occupied.   
  
“Hey you,” says a voice close behind me. I turn my head to see Peeta smiling down on me. Lace is with him.   
  
“Oh, hi!” I say. I try to inject as much friendliness into my voice as possible. It’s not that I’m unhappy to see Peeta, it’s just that I’m not happy to see her. “Having a good time?”  
  
Peeta shrugs. “I suppose it’s an improvement on the Capitol parties.”  
  
“You’ve been spoilt, that’s your problem, Mr I’m-Bored-With-It-All,” says Lace, with her trademark giggle. “What about the rest of us who haven’t been to anything fancier than the District parties, not that District 8 could afford to put on a particularly good one.”  
  
_Been to a lot of District parties, then?_ I’m tempted to ask. What was a factory worker doing at a district party? District parties were dinners held to honor the new victors on the Victory Tour. Only dignitaries, their families, prominent citizens and the families of the dead tributes from that district were allowed to attend. Something’s not quite right about Lace.  
  
“The food was great,” says Peeta. “But that was the only good thing you could say about them.”   
  
I nod. “Yeah, they were awful. Especially when you’d have to face the families of the dead tributes.”  
  
The smile on Lace’s face vanishes. A moment of kinship between Peeta and me isn’t what she wants to see. Nor a subtle rebuke that she has no idea what she’s talking about.

There’s an awkward pause. I wish they’d move on but they remain where they are. It’s as if there’s a purpose for them coming over, but they haven’t got around to it yet.   
  
Peeta breaks the silence. “Are you going to let me talk to Katniss?” he says to Lace, pretending to be annoyed.  
  
“Okay, okay,” says Lace, in mock surrender. “I know when I’m not wanted. I need to go to the ladies’ room anyway. Just stay out of trouble and don’t bug Katniss.” She kisses his cheek before she leaves and Peeta’s eyes follow her retreating form while she disappears down the hall.  
  
Peeta takes the empty seat beside me. “So, what do you think of the party?”

“Hm?” I ask, momentarily distracted. I’ve been wondering what Lace means by “don’t bug Katniss.” Why would she say it? And why would she say it in front of me? “Oh, um, the party’s alright, I guess. Certainly not the worst I’ve been to.”  
  
“I’m mostly here because Lace wanted to come,” explains Peeta. “She hopes to expand her client base to specialise in formal wear. And the people here are the people wealthy enough to afford it. She made the dress she’s wearing.”  
  
“It’s a lovely dress.” I feel I should say something nice about it.

“So’s yours. Cinna?”  
  
“Yes, Cinna.” There’s a stab of pain at the mention of his name, and I put my hand to the diamond beading on the low neckline, as if I could somehow connect myself to the man who designed it. Peeta’s eyes follow and I snatch my hand away, embarrassed to be thought trying to draw his attention to my breasts. They’re nothing to boast of, but Cinna knew how to make the most of my figure and I was both younger and thin from the strain of the Victory Tour when this gown was made. The gown is tight over the bust and I’m almost spilling out of it.   
  
“He certainly knew how to dress you,” says Peeta. “You always looked amazing in his creations.”  
  
I smile wanly at him. “Thanks,” I say. It isn’t really much of a compliment. Attributing my “amazingness” to Cinna’s designs and then speaking in the past tense even though I’m wearing one of them right now.  
  
“So . . . Max,” he says, putting emphasis on “Max”. “You’ve never said anything.”  
  
Yeah, like we tell each other things like that. How much did you tell me about Lace?  
  
“He’s a friend,” I say.   
  
“Just a friend?”  
  
“Peeta, it’s none of your business.” This line of conversation is irritating. He hardly talks to me about his own relationship but he’s being nosy about mine.   
  
“Yeah, sorry. It’s not. But, for the record, I want you to know that if it makes you happy, I support it.”  
  
Now he’s really annoying me. “Why would I need your support?”

Before Peeta can respond, Max appears with a glass in each hand. “Hi Peeta,” he says.  
  
“Hello, Max.” Peeta stands up. “I’d better go. Lace will be back soon. I’ll see you later, Katniss.”  
  
“She’s got him well trained, hasn’t she?” asks Max, taking the seat Peeta just vacated.  
  
I just give him a look. But silently I agree. She talks to him like a child. _“Stay out of trouble and don’t bug Katniss.” “Yes, Mommy.”_ He even seemed to need her permission to talk to me. Maybe her attraction is that she gives him the affection he felt he didn’t get from his mother. Now there’s a weird thought.  
  
The music starts up for the dancing. Max grabs my hand and pulls me to my feet. “C’mon. This will get you in a better mood and help work off all that alcohol you’ve drunk.”  
  
“I’ve hardly had anything,” I protest.   
  
“Yeah, sure.” Max puts his arms around my waist and I put my mine around his neck. It’s slow music and we shuffle around for what passes for dancing nowadays. He leans down and says in a low voice, “Over there. At three o’clock. Peeta and Lace. Let’s give him something to be jealous about.” I’m pulled hard against him and then he attempts some fancy turns that has my feet barely touching the floor.  
  
“Will you stop that?” I say, seriously annoyed. People are looking at us, wondering what we’re doing. I catch a glimpse of Peeta. His face is unreadable. It’s the mask he puts on when he wants to hide his thoughts. His actor’s mask.  
  
“Definitely jealous,” says Max.   
  
I say nothing. Even if he is, one thing I’ve learned about Peeta by now is that whatever he’s feeling, it will soon be interpreted the same way he’s interpreted everything else.

I see Peeta whisper a few words to Lace. She nods and they leave the dance floor and then disappear through a set of double swinging doors. It’s a service entrance of some kind because I’ve seen a couple of the waiting staff emerge and exit from that door. My imagination goes into overdrive over why Peeta and Lace would use it. Neither the restrooms nor the main entrance is through there. If I didn’t have Max with me, I’d be tempted to follow.   
  
The dance ends and with nothing better to do, we join Haymitch at the bar. At Haymitch’s request, the bartender has lined up shots of whisky in a long row. It’s all the different types stocked at the bar, and Haymitch wants to compare and sample them all. Max has one, out of politeness, I think – he doesn’t like whisky. I quickly discover that I don’t either, but I like the way it blazes a trail of fire down my throat and then spreads through my veins, to dull the anxiety because the longer Peeta is away, the tenser I become. I put out my hand for another shot. Haymitch laughs and Max looks on questioningly but I ignore him and down it in one gulp. My head feels fuzzy but I keep my eyes on the swinging double doors, waiting for Peeta and Lace to emerge. When they eventually do, they head over to a group of people around our own age and have a merry time, talking and laughing. Peeta’s arm is around Lace’s waist and he bends his head to drop a kiss onto her mahogany hair, mussed, I presume, from a recent make-out session.   
  
“Always. You promised me always,” I say, under my breath.  
  
“What?” Max asks.  
  
“Nothing.” I put the empty shot glass on the bar. “I think we can go now. I’ve had enough.”


	12. Chapter 12

_Dear Peeta,_

_I’m writing to you because I’m sure to get it wrong or miss something important if I do this face to face._

_I want to apologise that I threatened to end our friendship if you didn’t try to get your memories back. Friendship shouldn’t be conditional and my motives for insisting that you do were selfish ones._

_I want to apologise for my insinuation that the real Peeta Mellark didn’t come back. Whoever you are, and whoever you choose to be is the real Peeta Mellark. Again, my motives were selfish.  
  
I want to apologise for implying that you a coward. You have a right to live your life as you choose. You have a right to make your own reality. I was the coward for not facing mine.   
  
I want to apologise for presuming to know what’s best for you. Only you can do that because you’re the only who truly knows what you want. Again, my motives were selfish.   
  
It seems strange that after all this apologising for being selfish that I intend another selfish act. But since it’s about myself, I feel entitled to make it. I want to end our relationship. Entirely this time and for reasons I don’t want to share. It’s nothing you’ve done. There’s nothing for you to feel guilt over. This is about me and how I want to live my life.   
  
I’m sorry to leave in the middle of the tape viewings. Especially since it was indirectly initiated by me, and, I suspect, done at least partially for my benefit. But if you choose to continue and you need someone to help give context, then Haymitch is the logical choice. I know you trust him more than me anyway.   
  
Please continue to work at the bakery. This is work that you love and I don’t. I’ll be full time at the school eventually anyway. I’ve given my notice to the Carters and requested that it be effective immediately. Flora and Sateen will fill in until they get a replacement.   
  
I intend moving out of the Village as soon as I find alternative accommodation. In the meantime, I ask that you refrain from initiating any contact. I thank you for tending the primrose bushes but I want it to stop.   
  
I wish you every happiness in life, Peeta. No one deserves it more. You already have the foundation for it. Work that fulfils you, a woman you love and who loves you back, and many friends. As for us, we were mere ships that passed in the night, tossed together upon raging seas, and then set on course to sail in opposing directions once calmer waters prevailed. _  
  
_Kind regards, Katniss._   
  
So, what do you think, Prim? That last line too much? Yeah, it is pretty corny. I’ll get rid of it. It’s just hard to know how to finish it. The rest of it seems so cold. But maybe that’s not a bad thing. Once you know something is as good as dead, finish it off. Cleanly. An arrow through the eye. A sharp knife to the jugular. Pretentious attempts at metaphors have no place in it. Or was that a simile? I forget the difference. It’s a good thing then that I won’t be teaching English.  
  
Or art. My gaze comes to rest on the canvas atop the dresser. Its right side is facing outwards now. I’ve at last accepted that the real Peeta Mellark did come back. The Peeta Mellark that he is now, anyway. I had once compared the painting to Peeta, his true self hidden, his mind fractured, but not beyond saving. Now I’m stunned at the sheer arrogance of my former assumptions. What do I know of Peeta’s true self? Who am I to assume his mind is fractured just because he hasn’t fallen at my feet to declare his undying love? How do I know he needs saving? Or that if he even wants to be?

  
It’s a beautiful painting, though. A single bloom with a bud attached. The leaves painted in shades of grey so as to not take the focus from the bright yellow of the primrose. I wonder if Peeta meant it to represent life springing from ashes, and the bud to represent the constant renewal of life. What do you think, Prim? But Prim is silent. Prim is dead. Peeta is dead. It’s time to face harsh realities.   
  
I return downstairs to print out the letter in my neatest handwriting, leaving out the bit about ships passing in the night. And then I seal it in an envelope and stuff it in a drawer. I think better about giving it to him. It’s a dilemma – how to divorce myself from his life. If I shut him off suddenly and without explanation, it will cause confusion and pain. If I do it gradually, it will still cause confusion and pain, but at least it will be a progression and give him time to adapt. If I tell him the truth, it will also cause confusion and pain. Confusion, because in Peeta’s mind a romantic relationship with me isn’t even a possibility. And pain, because he’ll have to tell me he doesn’t feel the same. Besides, pride is one of the few things I have left.   
  
So, I write another letter.   
  
_Dear Peeta,_

_I’m sorry to have missed you when I called around earlier._

A lie. There was no such attempt.

_I wanted to let you know of my decision so you have time to make alternative arrangements. For a while now, I’ve questioned whether I’m the most suitable person to talk to about the tapes Dr Aurelius sends. Apart from the fact that you have expressed trust issues with me, I feel that someone who was an observer rather than a participant might be of more value. I think Haymitch would be a perfect choice if you plan to continue. I’ve consulted with Dr Aurelius and he has no objections._

Half a lie. I did consult with Dr Aurelius but he gave no opinion when I told him what I planned to do. He was only interested in my mental state and what activities I was involved in. 

_I want to apologise for my insistence that you “find yourself” as a condition of friendship. Friends don’t ask for conditions. And I was also wrong to imply that you’re not the real Peeta Mellark. Whoever you decide to be, you are the real Peeta Mellark. You can’t be anything but Peeta Mellark and I won’t think any less of you if you abandon the program.  
  
Much love, Katniss. _

I hold the letter in my hand for a full hour before I made the short journey to Peeta’s house to slip it under his front door. I know I’m doing the right thing but burning a bridge is never easy. Something in me broke on the night of the Mayor’s party. Right in front of me, he sneaked away for a grope with Lace, and when he came back it was to talk and laugh with his friends like I didn’t exist. Not one glance came my way. Not even to see if I was still there. My faith in Peeta’s love has been corroding for some time. Now it’s completely rusted away. I love him as much as ever, but I simply don’t have the heart for it anymore.   
  
When I get back to my house, I feel surprisingly okay. Like a great burden has been lifted. Free, almost. Perhaps the numbness will leave me soon, and despair will take its place. Perhaps I’ll even regret that letter and wish I could take it back. I guess I could break into Peeta’s house if I want to. He rarely bothers to lock his back door. No, this is the right thing to do. For everyone. For me. And for Peeta. Be decisive for once in your life, Everdeen.   
  
I distract myself with making a to-do list. I’ve already given notice at the bakery. The Carters were taken aback at the suddenness but not really surprised since I’ve twice cut hours at the bakery to work more hours at the school. I suspect they knew it was coming. I’m at the school three days a week now but mostly in the classroom since it’s getting too cold to take children into the woods, especially the little ones.   
  
Finding somewhere else to live will take time. Due to the large influx of immigrants, housing is in short supply. People are coming in faster than they can build them. But I’ll put feelers out. I don’t want anything large, just comfortable and well built, and not too far from the woods and the school.   
  
And there’s another thing I should do. I should be open to dating. Not that I want a torrid romance or anything. But I don’t want to be a virgin for the rest of my life either. In the Capitol, people had sex just for the fun of it. I heard that they even arranged to meet perfect strangers for an hour or two of sex and then they’d never see each other again. I think that’s going way too far, but maybe I could meet someone nice, who wants what I want. Some companionship, some fun, but nothing serious. Max, maybe? No. I dismiss that from my mind immediately. He’s far more valuable to me purely as a friend. Besides, once you’ve vomited on someone, it’s likely you’ve blown any attraction they might have felt for you, anyway.   
  
It was really his fault. He shouldn’t have slung me over his shoulder like that just because I was walking too slowly for his liking. There’s not a lot that I remember after we left the party. Only that my stomach was doing somersaults and my head was spinning. I might have blubbered a lot about Peeta too. When I awoke in my bed around noon the next day, on my nightstand was a jug of water, a glass and a piece of paper, folded in half. My midnight blue sparkly Cinna gown was draped over a chair. That’s when I realised I was naked. On the paper was a message from Max. _You’re paying to have my suit cleaned. Take a couple of painkillers and drink lots of water. P.S. I kept my eyes closed. Okay, I might have peeked._

I wanted to pull the covers over my head and never come out. I haven’t seen Max yet, but I know I’ll never hear the end of it. This is a gold mine for someone who loves to tease as much as he does. Well, I’m certainly not paying his cleaning bill. He got the suit for free, didn’t he? 

At five o’clock, I take a position at the large bay window in my sitting room. It’s around this time that Peeta comes home from the bakery. He would have heard of my resignation but I doubt he’ll be surprised. I’d already told him that I didn’t intend working there much longer. I see him open his front door, and then stoop to pick something off the floor. My letter. The door closes behind him. It’s done then. Now he’ll be reading it. Processing it. Possibly puzzled by it. Maybe upset? Angry? Annoyed? Indifferent?   
  
I suppose it’s inevitable that Haymitch soon hears of it. He’s at my door not long after Peeta had left his house. He stinks of white liquor. He had probably settled in for a pleasant evening of drinking himself into oblivion before Peeta disturbed him. Since he’s now disturbing me, he must consider this close to a national emergency.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing? You and me, we made a deal to try to save him. Remember?”   
  
“He doesn’t need saving.” I tie the sash of my dressing gown and lower myself into a chair. I’d been about to go to bed. “He hasn’t needed saving since he returned to 12. He’s happy the way he is.”   
  
Haymitch stares at me, incredulous. “Then what have these tapes been about? You weren’t concerned about his happiness then. He only started watching them because you threatened him.”  
  
I put my head in my hands. There’s no point in denying it. If Peeta’s put me through an emotional wringer, then I’ve done the same to him. That’s why it has to stop.

“I know. And I was wrong. I’ve been doing it for selfish reasons while telling myself it was for his sake. I didn’t take into consideration that Peeta’s changed. And that he might not want the same things that he did.” My voice cracks despite my efforts. “That he might not want me.”  
  
I wait for Haymitch to yell at me some more, but there’s only silence. When I raise my head, I see that he’s taken the chair opposite and he’s taking a swig out of his bottle. I think even if Haymitch were in a burning building, he’d save the liquor before himself.   
  
“Peeta doesn’t understand what’s happened to him so you can’t blame him – “  
  
“I don’t,” I say.  
  
“You do. You’re punishing him for things that are out of his control – “  
  
“No! You’re not doing this to me again. This guilt trip thing that you do. The circumstances were different then. Peeta wanted to be helped. For himself. It wasn’t to please me. And while it seems strange to say it, there was a clarity about him then too. Now he just wants to see the past through a particular lens. When we watch the tapes, no matter what they are, they’re all confirmation for beliefs he already holds. And what’s more, he’s happy to believe them.”  
  
“Maybe he’s just afraid – “  
  
“Afraid of what? That he’ll discover that it wasn’t just an act? That I fell in love with him? You know what happened when I told him I love him. He misunderstood. That’s not someone who’s afraid. That’s someone who wants a certain reality where I’m nothing more to him than a family member. He’s told me several times that he’s not in love with me and he wants us to be friends. This whole thing – the tapes, trying to restore his memories – is me not facing reality.” 

“I think you’re giving up too soon,” he argues. “If you persist for a just a bit longer – “  
  
“No. I’ve had enough.” I shake my head wearily. “I’m tired, Haymitch. He’s happy. We should leave him be. And I want to get on with my life too. Besides, if he wants to keep on with the tapes, he can. He doesn’t need me for that. What did he say about it, by the way?”

“He barely mentioned it. He’s upset because he thinks you’re distancing yourself from him and he doesn’t know why. This is cruel what you’re doing to him.”  
  
“And this has been easy for me?” I demand, moved to anger. “Why are his feelings more important than mine? He’s the one with a girlfriend, remember.”

Haymitch puts up a hand. “Yeah, yeah. Alright. I can see your side of it too,” he says, trying to calm me down. But I’m not done yet.   
  
“Peeta’s made it very clear that he wants Lace as a girlfriend and me as a friend,” I say. “Well, it’s not what _I_ want. Do you really think Peeta would’ve hung around being my friend if I’d ended up with Gale? No, he wouldn’t. It’s far better to go our separate ways now before there’s any more hurt on either side. I know it’s upsetting for him now but he’ll soon get over it. He’s not in the same position he was when he came back. He has a job, a girlfriend. He has other friends. He has her family.” As I list all the things Peeta has going for him, my guilt begins to ease. I am doing the right thing. Peeta will come to see it in time.   
  
“But what if that’s not what he really wants?” he asks. “Shouldn’t Peeta have a say? What’s the difference between this and what you were doing earlier?”  
  
“The difference is that he’s made his choice,” I say, thinking of the guest room ban. “I just didn’t want to confront it before.”

Haymitch opens his mouth to say something but then seems to think better of it. He turns his attention back to his bottle instead.

“Why do you think he came back to 12?” I ask. This has never made sense to me. “Why couldn’t he have left me alone? That day when I found him planting the primrose bushes outside my house, I thought he’d come back to me. But it turned out to be just a cruel joke.”  
  
“He can’t leave you alone. Not after what the Capitol put him through. It made him fixated on you. More than he already was, anyway.” Haymitch rises from the chair. “Well, if you’re determined, there’s nothing I can do about it. I just hope it’s the right decision.”  
  


“Me too,” I say to myself after Haymitch is gone. But the truth is that I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m reaching in the dark, trying to be fair to everyone, but afraid of being fair to no one.  
  
That night I have a dream. There’s nothing unusual about that, except this time it’s not a nightmare. It’s a pleasant, comforting dream that harks back to simpler times. Before Prim was reaped. When Peeta was the boy with the bread and Gale was my best friend. I trusted him with all my secrets. Even with Prim, I couldn’t be so open, my priority always to protect her.   
  
“Catnip,” dream Gale says. “I know exactly what you’re going through with Peeta. Same as me with you.”  
  
“What do you mean?” I ask.  
  
“Trying to be his friend, while he’s with another. Living in hope that things will change, but all the while knowing that the odds are not in your favour.”  
  
“Yeah.” I rest my head on his shoulder and his arm goes around me. He smells of apples, damp leather and wood smoke. “Sometimes, I want to walk away. Try to forget that I ever knew him. But then I remember how he was, and how much we meant to each other, and that he’s only the way he is now because of me. “   
  
“And he gives you just enough to keep hopes alive,” adds Gale.  
  
I nod against his shoulder. I know how my indecisiveness must have looked to Gale, but there’s no rebuke in his voice. He’s just telling me as it was.   
  
“I didn’t want to lose what we had,” I explain.  
  
“Is that why you want Peeta? Because you don’t want to lose what you had? Because you can’t repeat the past, Katniss. You should have learned that by now.”  
  
I think about that for a moment. It’s a good question. “When I was sent to 12, I didn’t care whether I lived or died. I sat in a chair all day and only got out of it to go to the bathroom. But when Peeta came back, I started to come back too. If there wasn’t something of the old Peeta there, that would have been it for me. But there is. Memories or not, he’s still Peeta.”

“Not quite Peeta. The part of him that loves you didn’t come back,” says Gale. 

“No.” Not the kind of love I want, anyway. I think about the barely begun crush I had on Gale before the Games. It had still lingered a little, complicated as it was by my confusion about Peeta. But really, it didn’t survive the Games. It just took me a while to realise it.   
  
“But what if it did, and it’s still there buried down deep. That’s possible, isn’t it?” There has to be some hope. 

“Was that how it was with you for me?” Gale asks.  
  
“No,” I answer. “But we were never going to last even if we had got together. We clashed too much. Our values were too different. Maybe if the Games and the war hadn’t happened, it wouldn’t have mattered. But it did.”

“Do you remember the conversation we had in 2?” he says. “That time we kissed? Just before that we talked about Peeta. How I didn’t stand a chance with you if he didn’t get better. That you’ll never be able to let him go. I knew I couldn’t compete with that, no matter much pain I was in. And that’s your problem. You can’t let anyone go who’s in pain. It’s why you had trouble letting me go.”  
  
“I remember, but I can’t see how it’s relevant to the present situation.”   
  
“Easy. Catnip, he’s not the one in pain this time. You are. Let him go. Look out for yourself and let him come to you.”   
  
“And if he doesn’t?”  
  
“Then the Peeta you knew is dead. And you mourn him, and move on.”  
  
“Like you did?” I ask. But there’s no answer. I’m talking to the wind. Gale is gone.


	13. Chapter 13

“Katniss! Wait!”  
  
My feet slow to a stop and I turn reluctantly to face him. He’ll want to talk about the note I left for him. I knew I’d have to face Peeta sooner or later. I was hoping for later. Much later.   
  
His face his flushed with exertion by the time he catches up to me, his breath misting the frosty air. He probably can’t wait to let me have it. How I threatened to have nothing more to do with him unless he tried to get his memories back. And that now I’m giving up on it. Even going to far as to imply that it was a waste of time and I’m fine with him staying just the way he is. 

“Do you mind if I walk with you?” he asks.   
  
“Of course not,” I say, giving him a weak smile. At least he doesn’t seem mad so that’s something. I resume walking and Peeta falls in alongside me. There’s only one road from the Village and that leads to the town. I’m meeting Sateen and Arthur for a lunch date at a new café that’s opened recently. I assume Peeta is heading into town to call on Lace and then they’ll go out somewhere together. They go out a lot. To the swimming pool when the weather is warm for their swimming lessons. To the ice-cream parlor for Lace to lick ice-cream off his face. Or out to dinner at a restaurant. Peeta’s never taken me anywhere, even as a friend. Oh, there was that one time to the ice-cream parlor. But that was to soften me up before he told me to stop coming over at night when I had a nightmare. How could I ever forget that? But otherwise, he wasn’t even keen to have me walk into town with him – not after he met Miss Face-licker.   
  


Peeta gets right down to it. “I got your note.”

I nod. I steel myself in anticipation. Here it comes.

He takes a deep breath. “I owe you an apology.”   
  
“Huh?” I exclaim, taken completely by surprise. An apology is the last thing I expect.   
  
“I’m sorry I’ve made you think I don’t trust you. I wouldn’t have asked you to watch the tapes with me if I didn’t.”  
  
“But you said – “  
  
“Yes, I know what I said. But it wasn’t true. And even if it was, it was a tactless, even cruel thing to say, whether I meant it or not.”  
  
I shrug. “It doesn’t matter. I’ve come to accept that the hijacking has changed how you see and feel about me. And I’d much rather you were honest and didn’t sugarcoat it.”   
  
“But it’s not how I feel at all. It’s like I told you before. I have all these feelings and I don’t know where to put them. But wherever the distrust came from it’s not with you. Please, I need you not to give up on me.”   
  
His hand reaches out to tug on my arm, urging me to look at him. His face is full of entreaty and for a moment, I feel my resolve soften. But then I remember that he’s out walking with me because he’s on his way to see Lace and it hardens again.  
  
“It’s not giving up on you,” I say, as convincingly as I can. No, it’s more like letting you go, I say to myself. Although I would hard-pressed to explain the difference if asked.   
  
I turn my attention back to the road to avoid looking at him. “It’s time for Haymitch to take over anyway. Dr Aurelius hasn’t sent you anything about your own Games before we became allies. And why would he if he knows I’m the one watching the tapes with you? And what comes after too, like what happened behind the scenes with the berries, or in the Quell, for instance. Haymitch would know all that. I don’t.”   
  
“But why can’t you be there anyway? There might still be questions that Haymitch can’t answer.”  
  
I shake my head. “No, it wouldn’t work. My presence might discourage him from speaking as freely as he would like.”  
  
“Yeah, I guess you have a point,” he reluctantly concedes. “It’s just that I hardly get to see you anymore. With the dinners gone, watching the tapes was the only time we spent together.”  
  
There’s something about his tone that annoys me. Like it’s all my fault that we see so little of each other. He said so himself that he was neglecting Haymitch and me in favour of Lace and now he complains that he doesn’t see enough of me?   
  
“I thought you’d be glad about the dinners,” I retort. “You were the one who wanted to keep switching them around so you could be free to take Lace out.”   
  
“I never meant that we shouldn’t have them. It was only changing the days.”  
  
“For _your_ convenience. Those dinners were to help all of us establish a routine. A routine means doing the same thing at the same time.”  
  
“Well, it’s no routine at all if we don’t have them,” he points out with a reasonableness that annoys me even more. Since I can’t think of a comeback, I stare ahead in stony silence instead. It’s then I notice that dark clouds have gathered over the mountains. It seems sort of apt, considering how this conversation is going.   
  
“Look, Katniss, I don’t want to argue,” he continues. “I don’t care about dinners. I just want to spend time with you. You’re one of my best friends and lately it feels as if we’re drifting apart. I had this idea. We could have hang-out days.”  
  
“What’s that?”  
  
“It’s when you hang-out with a friend. You know, mess around. Do whatever you feel like doing.”  
  
It takes a few seconds to get my head around it. A day with no purpose behind it, other than to mess around? I’ve never had one of those days in my life. When I met with Gale, we had serious work to do. If we weren’t hunting, we were trading. As for Peeta, when did he ever have time for a hang-out day between school, wrestling practice and working at the bakery?  
  
“What made you think of that?” I ask.   
  
“Oh, nothing really,” he says. He sounds embarrassed. “Maybe the tape we watched last week. You know, with the picnic on the roof. We seemed to have a lot of fun, just messing around. It looked a good way to spend time with a friend.”  
  


So that’s how he’s interpreted our rooftop date – as “hanging-out” with a friend. I wonder how many friends he’s had rest their head in his lap while he plays with their hair. 

“Tell me, how do hang-out days with a girl you were supposedly once in love with fit with being a good boyfriend?” I ask.

“I didn’t mean – “ 

I don’t let him finish. Whichever way he’s rationalized it, I’m not interested. We’ve come to the intersection where we part ways, anyway. He to Lace’s shop and me to the café to meet Sateen and Arthur.   
  
I turn to look him squarely in the face. “You can’t have us both, Peeta. Not the way you want to.”  
  
He stares at me, uncomprehending at first and then as if struck by a sudden, and painful realization. I don’t wait for a response. I spin on my heel and stalk off. I’ve had enough of Peeta Mellark for one day. I glance backwards once I have some distance between us. He’s still standing where I left him, gazing confusedly around him as if he can’t quite work out how he got there. And then he starts walking in the direction of Lace’s shop.   
  
Unbelievable! Even as a naïve sixteen-year-old I knew my days as Gale’s hunting partner were numbered once he met a girl that he was serious about. And that was working together! Not “hanging-out.” And apparently, I’m not even his best friend either, but just one of. I don’t feel bad about that letter anymore. In fact, I think I might even have had a lucky escape. If this is his idea of a good boyfriend then I’m better off without him. And he’s not only not a good boyfriend. He’s not a good friend either. Lace can have him!  
  
By the time I’ve reached the café, I’ve worked myself into quite a state. Before I enter, I take a deep calming breath. I don’t want to spoil a friendly get-together by starting out in a bad mood. When I push open the door, I see brightly painted walls, potted plants, and mismatched “pre-loved” furniture. The “alternative look” Effie called it. Very on-trend, she had said. And almost as fashionable as district ruins. My guess is that the proprietors are ex- Capitolites and have no idea that shabby was never a fashion choice in 12, but just the way things were. However, I can’t deny that the ambience is very homey and comfortable and gives the impression that all the love is lavished on the food. I search for Sateen and Arthur and at first think I must have arrived before them. But then I spy Arthur, partially hidden behind a rubber plant, fiddling with the salt and pepper shakers. He’s alone.   
  
I take the chair opposite him. “Hi.” My eyes sweep the room, looking for Sateen.  
  
“She’s not here,” says Arthur. “She has a migraine.”  
  
“Oh.” Poor Sateen. Madge’s mother had suffered greatly from migraines. They had been very debilitating and she had needed morphling to relieve the pain. That was how Madge could get hold of some for Gale when he was whipped. “Does she get them often?”  
  
Arthur lets out an exasperated sigh. “No. This is the first time. And it came on just before we were about to leave.”   
  
There’s no point in pretending. We both know what Sateen’s intentions are. “She’s determined to get you paired off, isn’t she?”   
  
Another sigh. “Yes. She thinks because we went to the Mayor’s party together there must be something between us. I told her repeatedly that it was a business arrangement but she wouldn’t listen.”   
  
“Why is it so important to her? I’m sure you’re capable of finding someone, if that’s what you want,” I say.   
  
“Thank you. Would you mind telling Sateen that? But it seems she wants me settled before she goes back to 8.”

“Sateen’s going back to 8?” This is news to me. I thought she had moved here permanently.  
  
“Yes, to marry. Didn’t she tell you? “  
  
I shake my head no.  
  
“Well, it hasn’t been long. She probably didn’t want to say anything until she was sure. She had a falling out with her fiancé before we came here but it seems they’ve patched things up. I don’t expect it will be a long engagement. Not if know my sister.”  
  
Not if I know her either. This fiancé of hers will be marched down the aisle double-time. Sateen doesn’t like to mess around.   
  
“But in the meantime,” Arthur goes on, “Sateen seems to have intensified her efforts to get me married off too.” He throws his hands up in resignation. “She’s always been over-protective, even though I’m the eldest. I suppose it’s because there was really just the two of us after our mother died. Our father was mostly absent running the business.”  
  
“Yeah, I know how that feels,” I say. I think about Prim and how protective I was of her. I wonder if Prim might have worried about me if she was to leave the district to marry. Would she be concerned about leaving me alone, and hopeful of seeing me “settled” before she left? Especially if she thought of me as socially inept? I think she might have.   
  
Now that that subject is exhausted, the conversation comes to an awkward stop. Arthur and I have as much in common as night and day and neither of us are good at small talk. Peeta would have come in very useful right now. I could always relax knowing that he’d shoulder the burden of keeping the conversation running smoothly. When the waitress comes with the menu it provides a welcome diversion and I make a play of examining it closely. Arthur does the same.  
  
“They have a very unusual selection,” I say, desperate to fill the silence. “Chicken and chickpea salad with a marshmallow dressing. I’d never have thought of that.”  
  
“No, it’s most unusual,” Arthur agrees.   
  
More silence. I decide to bite the bullet. I ask, “Did you get any business from the Mayor’s party?”   
  
Arthur’s face clearly shows his relief. And then he launches into his favorite subject – the clothing industry. I prepare to be bored for the next hour, but it’s better than the two of us staring into space with nothing to say to each other.   
  
When the waitress returns, we give her our order; pulled horse panini with a side of deep-fried cabbage for us both. And Arthur keeps on talking, and talking . . .  
  
“Imagine seeing you here!” squeals a female voice at my back. I spin around and just a few feet away are Lace and a very uncomfortable looking Peeta. This lunch date just got a whole lot worse.   
  
“Do you mind if we join you?” asks Lace, although she’s already pulled over a chair from an adjoining table.   
  
“Lace, I think we should leave them alone,” says Peeta in a low voice. His eyes flicker between Arthur and me.   
  
“It’s okay, isn’t it?” Lace smiles at Arthur but ignores me.   
  
“Of course, it is. The more the merrier,” says Arthur in an uncharacteristically jovial voice.   
  
Peeta drags over a chair and reluctantly takes a seat. I try to avoid looking at him but it’s hard with him sitting so close.   
  
“Well, this is cozy,” gushes Lace. “I was all set for an afternoon of cutting out patterns when Peeta called in. Very timely it was, right on lunchtime.”   
  
“Well, you’ve got to eat,” says Arthur. “Is that how you like to work? Doing all your cutting at once?”  
  
And then they’re off. Peeta and I may as well not be here. I smile and pretend to be interested. I become aware of Peeta’s eyes on me, and once or twice, I get the feeling he wants to say something before deciding against it. The waitress comes to take their orders and asks if we’d like all four meals brought together. Before I can say no thanks, Arthur jumps in to accept. Now we’ll all finish eating at the same time. No excuse for an earlier exit now.

The meals come. Lace has ordered pumpkin and yoghurt soup with pork crackling. Peeta, spinach and cheese custard with wild rice. 

The horse panini is surprisingly tasty and so is the deep-fried cabbage. Lace pulls a face when she takes her first mouthful of soup and picks out all the crackling to give to Peeta.   
  
“Here Peeta, you should like this.” Lace turns to Arthur. “Peeta’s family were pig farmers,” she explains. “As well as bakers.”  
  
“We were never pig farmers,” corrects Peeta. “We kept one pig at the back of the shop. It was cheap to raise because we could feed it scraps and any food we couldn’t sell.”   
  
Like burned bread, I think, remembering the bread Peeta tossed to me on that awful night in the rain so long ago. His mother had told him to feed it to the pig.

“Well, I’m sure the pig appreciated it,” says Lace. There’s a faint emphasis on the word “pig”. Lace’s expression is devoid of any hidden intent. But just the same, I get the impression she’s talking about me. She could have learned the bread story from either Peeta or the interview Cressida did of me.   
  
“It did,” I say, lightly. “Best fed pig in the district. Better fed than most of the residents of Seam actually.”  
  
“That’s where you lived, Katniss?” asks Arthur. “I recall you mentioning it in the Games.”   
  
“Yes. It’s all gone now though, thanks to Snow. But it lay between the town and the forest to the north. Most of us worked in the mines, and there was rarely enough to eat. It wasn’t uncommon to die of starvation. But I suppose it was like that in other districts too. Among the poorer classes, anyway.”  
  
Arthur nods. “Our workers had it very bad. And we couldn’t increase their wages because it was set by the Capitol. My father would sometimes slip a few coins to the worst cases, but there were so many in need.”  
  
My eyes turn to Lace, who has suddenly taken an inordinate interest in her food. Lace worked in a factory in 8 but somehow had the resources to travel to another district to set up a business. And she attended district parties too. I don’t recall seeing any impoverished guests at those events. “Was it like that for your family, Lace?” I ask.   
  
Lace’s head jerks up from her soup. “What? Oh, yes, a bit,” she stammers. 

“It could vary,” says Arthur quickly. “So, the two of you didn’t actually meet until the Games, then?”  
  
“Oh, um, no, not officially,” I say, taken by surprise by the sudden change of subject. And did I just see Lace caught in a lie, and then Arthur cover for her? “But we knew of each other,” I add. “We were in the same year at school.”   
  
“I noticed Katniss from the very first day,” says Peeta quietly. “My father pointed her out to me. She wore a red plaid dress and her hair was in two braids. And when she sang the Valley Song at music assembly the – “  
  


“The birds stopped to listen,” Lace chips in. “And you were a goner. It’s a sweet story. We all thought it so romantic when we heard it on TV. But that’s Peeta for you. He certainly knows how to romance a girl. Doesn’t he, Katniss?”

Lace dimples at me as if we are two friends sharing a confidence about a boy they’ve dated. If I’ve been unsure of Lace’s veiled taunts before, I’m certain of this one. The implication is clear. Peeta had made up or exaggerated the story. If not for the cameras, at least then to sweet-talk me.   
  
I glance over at Peeta. He’s looking disapprovingly at Lace. This must be the first time I’ve seen him anything other than love-struck. But she could have only got that impression from him. After all, I was the one who had people suspecting the star-crossed lovers were an act, not Peeta.

“Yes. He does,” I say tightly. I don’t return her smile.   
  
Suddenly I can’t stand to be here another minute with these people. Boring Arthur, smug Lace and false friend Peeta. If I were with Sateen and Arthur as arranged, I would be leaving by now anyway. I push my chair back from the table so abruptly that it makes a harsh grating sound against the timber floor. “Sorry, I have to go now,” I say in a rush. “I’m expecting a phone call from my mother.” I reach into my pocket for some money and drop it to the table. And then I leave with a hasty goodbye.   
  
I make it to the corner before the tears begin to fall. Those memories of our time in the cave had been precious to me but now they’re ruined too. For all I know, he had made up that story all along and I had fooled myself into thinking it was true. I did wonder about it when I first heard it. Peeta’s not the only one who doesn’t know what’s real or not real anymore. After all, he can make people believe anything. Why should I be any different? 

And how could I have let Lace get to me like that? It must seem so obvious from the way I hurried out that she had upset me. I had been doing so well too, keeping it together. I should have laughed it off. Pretended I was in on the joke. Or that I didn’t care. Then maybe I might have preserved some dignity and shown that I don’t care one jot that Lace has him. Lace! How she must love this. Katniss Everdeen, running off because she knows she’s lost. 

Oh, what does it matter anyway? The dinners are gone. So too are the tape viewings. Peeta and I don’t work together anymore either and I’ve made it clear I’m not interested in hang-out days. Peeta and I will hardly see each other. I’ll see even less of Lace. As for Arthur, the only thing we have in common is Sateen. And she’ll be returning to 8 to get married.   
  
Perhaps it’s worked out for the best. It makes the break from Peeta more final now and the fewer fond memories I have of him the better. Better for him too, if there’s nothing to keep him back from going forward with his new life.   
  
I swipe the tears away with the back of my hand. Fortunately, there are not many people about on this wintry afternoon to see them. The clouds I observed earlier are now directly overhead, heavy with the threat of imminent rain. Arthur and Lace live in the town, so they don’t have far to get home. I should make it home before the weather breaks but Peeta will almost certainly be caught in it. If he has any sense he’ll go home with Lace. It’s where he belongs now, anyway.  
  
The first icy drops catch me as I pass through the Village gates. By the time I reach my front porch, it’s plummeting. I brush the raindrops off my coat before hanging it in the hall closet. And then I get a roaring fire started in my sitting room and make a pot of tea. Pamper myself, that’s what I need to do. I pull up my most comfortable chair in front of the television and then switch it on with the remote. It’s some silly reality show from Plutarch based on a houseful of people under constant surveillance, but it’s mindless escapism and just what I want right now. Buttercup jumps onto my lap, careless of the cup of hot tea I’m holding.   
  
There, what else could I possibly need? I have a warm, comfortable house, a comfortable chair, a comfortable animal purring on my lap, and I’m sipping a comforting beverage while people on TV are making fools of themselves for my entertainment. A perfect recipe for contentment.   
  
I don’t know what makes me look up from the television and out my sitting room window at that particular moment. Perhaps it’s the sudden surge in rainfall pounding against the roof, or the sound of a tree branch creaking in protest at the wind. But there, in the distance, on the other side of the road, I see Peeta, soaked to the skin, struggling to unlock his front door, presumably with fingers numb with cold. Why on earth didn’t he stay at Lace’s until the storm passed? I hope he gets out of those wet clothes at once and warms himself by a fire. I’m tempted to give him a call and invite him over to share mine. But then I remember that Peeta and I are to live separate lives from now on and I turn my attention back to the television. 


	14. Chapter 14

With remarkable timing, the train pulls into the station just as I finish the magazine article I’ve been reading. It’s an interview with someone called Marcus Muir. He wants forests designated as national parks for “conservation and recreation.” It seems they had them in the old days before fences were put up and everyone was shut out. Well, almost everyone. I guess it makes sense. More people will use the forests now and it will need to be regulated to prevent abuses. I take children into the forest myself on a regular basis to familiarize them with it. I’m a bit concerned about what this will mean for hunting though. Will that need to be regulated too?

No time to worry about that now. I hope Sateen and her husband-to-be are here to meet me. I have no idea where I’m supposed to go if they don’t show up. But just as I step out onto the platform Sateen rushes forward. Close behind her is a very tall man with the blue-grey eyes and ash brown hair typical of people from 8. Sateen’s hair is now the same colour as Lace’s – number 654 Light Mahogany Brown. 

Sateen proudly introduces her fiancé. “Katniss, this is Roy.” He gives me a shy smile and we shake hands. I know quite a bit about him now. His full name is Corduroy Button and his family owns one of the few factories that survived the bombings in 8. They met when Sateen was sixteen and Roy nineteen and, according to Sateen, there had been some kind of understanding between them. Roy, however, dragged his feet when it came to making it official, and Sateen, fed up, went with Arthur to 12. But absence makes the heart grow fonder, as they say, for Roy pined for Sateen, phoning her frequently and eventually proposing marriage. As Sateen put it, “he came to his senses at last.”  
  
Cars are almost as scarce in 8 as they are in 12, but the wealthy Buttons own one. Sateen chatters to me from the front seat full of news about her wedding arrangements. I try to appear interested. If she only knew that talk of wedding gowns and floral bouquets bore me to tears. My real attention is on the scenery flashing by outside my window. I barely recognize it from my last visit. The dingy, crowded tenements are being replaced by pleasant, low rise apartment buildings with courtyards. There’s no sign of any factories, yet I know that textile manufacture is still the main industry, so they’ve evidently been zoned away from residential areas. And most surprising of all, I see the establishment of parks and gardens, when before you’d be hard pressed to find a single tree. 

  
It was all bombed out buildings and rows of ugly grey warehouses when I was here last. It was from the roof of one of those warehouses that Gale and I joined Commander Paylor and other rebels to shoot at enemy hovercraft. Haymitch was hopping mad afterwards because I had cut off communication by pulling out my earpiece and disobeyed an order to retreat to a bunker. But as unimpressed as Haymitch was, I think I earned the respect of Paylor that day, who didn’t appear to know what to make of me when I had turned up hours earlier to visit the wounded in my shiny new Mockingjay outfit, surrounded by an entourage of bodyguards and a camera crew.   
  
Maybe that’s what persuaded her to grant permission for me to visit 8. Another is Sateen. When Sateen invited me to attend her wedding, I had to decline. The terms of my release stipulated that I was confined to 12 until further notice and I hadn’t as yet received any. But Sateen reacted in typical Sateen fashion. She went over my head. She was straight on the phone to President Paylor, who, as it turns out, is an old family acquaintance. The only condition was that I keep a low profile. Sateen told me this with such a sorrowful face. Apparently, the key to the city and a plaque unveiling had been in the works but would have to be abandoned now. “You mean so much to us, Katniss. The rebellion started in 8, you know. We still talk about the time you came here during the war. It would have been so nice to commemorate it with a ceremony, at least.” Inwardly I had sighed in relief. Thank you, President Paylor!

Roy drops me off in the town centre at 8’s newest hotel. Not enough room at the Button residence explained an apologetic Sateen. Not with every available bed occupied by assorted relatives. Another welcome reprieve. I like my space and Sateen can be a little . . . overwhelming, let’s say. I’ll see plenty of her over the next few days anyway. 

After a shower and change of clothes, I take a walk through the town. As with 12, there are many new buildings. But unlike 12, there are still many old ones too. Although 8 had sustained heavy bombing, it hadn’t been levelled as 12 had. I pass by the Justice Building. I hadn’t before noticed how handsome and imposing it is. I last saw it on our Victory Tour when it was in a very dirty and shabby state. But then, I was hardly in the right state of mind to appreciate the architecture. Not with the stress of the tour, and Peeta and I doing our best to quiet the rebellious mood in the districts with little or no success. Especially in 8, where our mere presence seemed to stir tensions.   
  
I move on. I don’t want to think of those days. Or of Peeta either. Especially Peeta. I peer into shop windows. They appear to have everything from bakeries to book shops. And an abundance of clothing and tailor shops too. I can see why someone starting out in the clothing industry, like Arthur and Lace, would choose to move to 12. The market is saturated here. 

Eventually, weary of walking, I come to a small park and take a seat on one of the benches. There’s hardly any shade to speak of - all the plantings are new, but a retaining wall gives some shelter from the weather. The wind is cold and biting, but compared to the snowy conditions in 12, winter here is comparatively mild. That’s one advantage in coming here. The other is distraction. At least, I thought it would be. But Peeta is everywhere. Even in 8.

I thought I’d see less of him when I withdrew from the tape viewings and begin the process of removing myself from his life, but it hasn’t worked out that way. In fact, I see even more of him. Peeta’s hours at the bakery have changed and we now start work at the same time. So, when I set off for the school, Peeta is there waiting for me so that we can walk into town together. I don’t know how to avoid him as there’s only that one road in and he knows what hours I work. He seems determined for us to remain friends. And at least walking in plain view and engaged in the common purpose of travelling to work is more acceptable for a man in a relationship than hang-out days. But it doesn’t help my cause any for the two of us to live separate lives from now on. I should really move out of the Village. But so far, no luck in finding a suitable house.   
  
And to make it even more awkward, he sometimes gives me these strange looks. It’s not unlike when we were at school when I’d find his eyes trained on me, only to quickly flit away. I suppose it’s because I made a fool of myself that day at lunch. He can’t work me out. Not that I blame him. I can’t work myself out half the time. 

I don’t know if Peeta has kept up with the tapes. At my request, Haymitch and I don’t talk about it. But I do know that if Haymitch is helping with them, it’s not on a Saturday afternoon at three o’clock, because I’ve checked to see if he visits at that time from my sitting room window. 

I take a look at my watch. Half-past four. I ought to get back to the hotel now to get ready for dinner with the Buttons. I’m to be picked up at six. I’m a little nervous, to be honest. I won’t know any of them except Sateen and Arthur. I wish Max were with me to act as a kind of buffer. Sateen’s wedding has coincided nicely with the winter break, so Max could have come. And he already has a suit (the vomit came out okay). But the invitation said “Miss Katniss Everdeen”, not “Miss Katniss Everdeen and partner.” I know the Buttons aren’t short of money so the omission isn’t about keeping costs down. It likely means only one thing – Sateen still thinks Arthur and I are a chance. Max thought it hilarious when I told him about Sateen’s hopes for Arthur and me. He likes to tease me about it. You wonder why I give him more ammunition, but the Katniss Ever-ready jokes were getting old. In vain I told him that Capitol gowns are meant to be worn without underwear. But Katniss Ever-ready was just too good to be let go easily without something to take its place. 

For dinner I wear a Cinna designed cocktail dress in emerald green teamed with black patent leather shoes. With five minutes to spare, I find a chair in the lobby near the window and make myself comfortable. I’m not kept waiting long. Right on six, I see the same car I came in pull up just in front of the hotel. From the driver’s seat emerges a young man with a quick, energetic stride. He recognizes me immediately. Something I’m still not quite used to.

“Katniss! Hi! I’m Roy’s brother – Tweed. All ready to go?”

I follow him out to the car and get in the front passenger seat. I quickly learn that Tweed is a very different driver to Roy. My body is slammed into the back of the seat with the sudden surge of speed as we set off. And when we come to some traffic, or what counts for traffic in 8, Tweed weaves and cuts his way through it as if we’re in a tearing hurry to get where we’re going. Roy drives like an old woman in comparison.   
  
In fact, Tweed seems the opposite of Roy in nearly every respect. Short rather than tall. Bleached blond hair rather than a natural brown. Talkative rather than quiet. He dresses differently too. No conservative suit in a dark colour for Tweed, but a jacket in a bright floral brocade with purple velvet lapels piped with gold braid and matching purple trousers with gold braid down the sides. He could be a walking advertisement for Capitol fashion.

“So, Katniss, what do you think of 8 so far?” he asks.   
  
“Um,” I begin, trying to focus my thoughts on the question as Tweed brakes and accelerates around a series of bends, “it’s very different than I remember it. A much pleasanter place to live. You know, for the factory workers, now that they have better housing and parks to walk in. I suppose it’s the same for the field workers?”  
  
Tweed’s brow creases in puzzlement. “Field workers? We don’t have field workers here. 8’s always been manufacturing. Why did you think that?”

“Oh, it was just something a friend of mine was told. They said there were three social classes: merchant, factory workers and field workers, with the field workers being at the bottom. I guess either he or the other person got it wrong,” I reply.  
  
Tweed laughs. “Did they ever? I mean, like all the districts, 8 does produce some of its own food but it’s mostly for personal use, like keeping chickens or growing one’s own vegetables. The bulk of it is imported from other districts. And as for raw materials for our factories, natural fibers such as cotton, flax and jute come from 9, and animal products like wool and leather are from 10. The exception is silk, which we do produce here but it hardly requires field workers. And furs end up in 1. I don’t know where they get them from. Synthetic fibers we make here, of course.”  
  
“Of course,” I repeat. I hardly hear him, too preoccupied with what Tweed had said earlier about field workers. Lace! She told Peeta there were three social classes. A resident of 8 would know there wasn’t. What other bullshit has she fed him?  
  
“You couldn’t get any lower than a factory worker, anyway,” says Tweed. “Not the way it was then. There’s only so far you can starve or ill-house people and still get a decent amount of work out of them.” They were like us in the Seam then. Barely surviving. Merchant would be the equivalent to factory owner here, then.   
  
“Even us owners were doing it tough,” he continues. “Before the war, our profit margin was set by the Capitol. It was so small I couldn’t even afford to buy the clothes I’m wearing now, for instance, that our very own factory produced! ”  
  
He says it so indignantly that I almost laugh. “When I first saw you, I thought you could be a walking advertisement for Capitol fashion,” I tell him.   
  
“Thanks,” he says, chuffed at the compliment. He doesn’t know that I find Capitol fashion ridiculous. Except for Cinna’s, of course. His tone becomes plaintive. “You can’t imagine how frustrating it was producing all these gorgeous garments and not being able to wear any of them.”  
  
“It must have been awful,” I say, doing my best to keep the sarcasm out of my voice. I bet the people who actually did make them would have traded the gaudy jacket he’s wearing for a square meal any day.   
  
Tweed turns the car into a long driveway and we come to a surprisingly modest house surrounded by a garden. “Well, here we are. The family residence. Won’t be for long, though. A much bigger one is being built closer to town.”   
  
“Business must be booming,” I say, as I unclip the seat belt I’d been clutching since we left the hotel.   
  
He’s halfway out of the car, but he stops to turn his head in my direction. “Yeah, well, it helps that most of the competition was put of business. And now that the market, rather than the Capitol, decides how much profit we make.”  
  
Once inside, I’m led into an entrance hall and then through a sitting and dining room. I don’t see anyone. But from somewhere at the back of the house I can hear muffled voices and then a sharp voice telling everyone to shut up. I have a bad feeling about this.  
  
Tweed opens a set of double doors and my fears are confirmed. There are bright lights, streamers and balloons, and a banner across the far wall. “Welcome Katniss Everdeen” it reads, “From a grateful District 8.” A loud cheer goes up and Sateen rushes forward to pull me in for a hug.   
  
‘We fooled them. There was no way we could let a visit from Katniss Everdeen go by without doing something to show our gratitude,” says Sateen with tears in her eyes. I think she’s been into the punch already.   
  
She’s so proud of herself that I don’t have the heart to do anything but return the hug and thank her.  
  
“Let me introduce you,” she says. I meet cousin Chambray and Uncle Chino. Aunt Chiffon. Roy and Tweed’s sister, Georgette, and her husband Dobby. Friends Damask and Loden. Grandpa Serge and Grandma Taffeta. Twins Voile and Viyella. Parents of the groom Organza and Oxford. Nieces Chenille and Gabardine. Babies Braid and Denim.  
  
“Does everyone here have a name to do with textiles?” I ask Tweed later.  
  
“Almost everyone,” he replies, pointing his glass in Arthur’s direction. “Among owners, anyway. It’s not so common with workers, though. Aren’t there name traditions in 12?”

“Some,” I answer. “Flower names for girls. And for merchant boys, the family profession they’re born into.”  
  
“Awful, isn’t it? It’s like having a label stuck on you. I hated Tweed, growing up. Rhymes with weed. Could be worse I suppose. At least I’m not a Moleskin like my great-aunt Paisley wanted. That was her husband’s name – he’s been dead the past fifty years.”  
  
“Which one is she?” I ask, looking around the room. “I don’t think I met her. Is she here?”  
  
“Unfortunately, yes. She’s the dried-up old witch with the walking cane over by the buffet table. You need to watch that cane. She’s liable to poke you with it.”  
  
“Can I meet her?” I like the look of her. Despite her age, there’s an alertness about her. It’s in her eyes, bright and curious. I bet nothing gets past her.   
  
Tweed shrugs. “Sure. It’s your life. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.” He walks over to Aunt Paisley and I follow. Her eyes rake him from head to foot. It’s clear she doesn’t approve of his choice of attire.  
  
“Aunt Paisley, this is Kat –“  
  
“I know who she is. I may be old but I’m not stupid,” she says, cutting him off. She pats the chair beside her and says to me, “Sit down dear, and we’ll a have a chat.” 

“Thank you, Tweed. You may go now,” she says dismissively. He rolls his eyes as if to say “See what I mean?” but he does as she says. I have a feeling that Aunt Paisley nearly always gets her way and makes life difficult for everyone until she does. Her family have learned that it’s easier not to fight it.   
  
“That boy has turned into a popinjay,” she says, not bothering to lower her voice. “As Capitol as they come. He’ll be wearing make-up next. They should have called him Lame and without the accent on the “e”.   
  
Luckily Tweed doesn’t appear to have heard her. Or maybe he did and doesn’t want to give her the satisfaction. If that’s his intention, it worked. Aunt Paisley seems disappointed that her barb has apparently missed its target. With a snort of disgust, she turns her attention back to me.

“So why isn’t the Mellark boy with you? I was hoping to meet him too,” she says accusingly. She’s the first person to ask me about him. I suspect that Sateen has warned everyone not to. Perhaps she missed Aunt Paisley, or Aunt Paisley, with her lack of tact, has chosen to ask anyway. But far from it being awkward, it’s just what I want. I need answers. And maybe Aunt Paisley can give them to me.   
  
“We’re not together anymore,” I say sadly. “He wasn’t the same when he returned from the Capitol. He’s dating a girl from 8 now. Perhaps you know of her. Her name’s Lace Bomul.”  
  
A bony hand reaches out to clasp mine. “I’m sorry, child. I wouldn’t have said anything if I had known.” Yes, you would, you old liar. But it’s not sympathy I want from you. But information.   
  
“Lace Bomul, you say?” she asks, pursing her lips.  
  
I nod. “Yes. She said she was a factory worker but I doubt that. She’s been to district parties.”  
  
Aunt Paisley shakes her head vehemently. “Workers weren’t allowed to attend district parties. She’s lying about something – either the parties or being a worker.”   
  
“I thought it sounded strange,” I say. But Aunt Paisley isn’t listening. She’s deep in thought.  
  
“Bomul,” she says, rolling it over her tongue as if trying it out. “It’s a common name here. If she was a worker, she could be one of thousands. I do know of one Bomul family who owned a factory but I don’t recall a Lace among them. There was a lot of scandal attached to the family at one time.”  
  
“Auntie, I hope you’re not spreading gossip,” chimes in Organza, who’s helping herself to the buffet.   
  
“What else is there to do at my age?” says Aunt Paisley, peevishly. “But since you’re here, _listening in_ , you can at least tell me the name of that young slut who got herself knocked-up by a worker.”  
  


“Really, Auntie,” chides Organza. “She’s not a slut. Just because she happened to fall in love with someone outside her class.”  
  
“She’s a slut!” says Aunt Paisley in a voice that won’t tolerate dissent. “We have class distinctions for a reason. People should stick to their own. She was a disgrace to her family and she should have been thrown out and disowned.”  
  
“Well, I heard she lost the baby anyway. And he was killed in the uprising, so it all came to naught. Chantilly, I think her name was. It’s very sad.”  
  
“Sad, my foot! The whole family should have been shot. What about when their factory was bombed and how every Bomul just happened not to be at work that day. The factory that they owned, and that every one of them was employed in. It’s mighty suspicious. That’s all I have to say.”  
  
“I doubt it,” says Organza drily. “I’m sure you have a lot more to say. But the only thing I’ll add is that it’s all rumour. And the fact that none of them was there isn’t proof of anything. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I want to eat my meal. Katniss, don’t let her bash your ear too much.”   
  
“Fuck off then,” says Aunt Paisley to her retreating back. “Now, where was I? Oh yes, the Bomuls . . .”  
  
According to Aunt Paisley, the Bomuls owned a factory that specialized in Peacekeeper uniforms. It was a family run business. There was nothing unusual about that, most District 8 factories were, with the whole family involved in the running of it. Children of owners were given a broad education in the textile industry from the spinning of yarn to the making up of garments.  
  
“So such children could be tailors or seamstresses if they wanted to?” I ask.  
  
“Well, yes. They would have had the knowledge of it, and could take it further if they wished,” she answers. “Most didn’t, of course. That would have been a step-down. But with the war, and with so many factories destroyed, many of us have had to take on whatever work we can find. Arthur and Sateen, for instance. Most of the tailoring and dressmaking shops in the town are run by the owner class.”

“And what about a worker? Could they be a tailor or a seamstress?”

Aunt Paisley laughs. “No dear,” she says in a condescending tone. “It’s clear you haven’t had factories in 12, or you wouldn’t ask such an absurd question. Workers in factories have very specific tasks. It could be cutting out fabric, or sewing buttonholes. But not to put together an entire garment from start to finish.”

“I see,” I say slowly. The puzzle pieces are falling into place. “So where are the Bomuls now?”

“Some of them are still around, I believe. Some migrated to other districts. But I haven’t got to the best part of the story yet. After the first uprising failed – the one where the slut’s lover was killed – the Capitol ordered a lockdown. It was terrible, child. Everyone had to stay in their homes, or they’d killed on the spot if they even so much as stuck their nose out the door. There was no food, or coal. It didn’t matter who you were, we all went hungry. But just when it was almost as bad as it could get, the order was given to re-open the factories and return to business as usual.”  
  


She pauses here for dramatic effect. “What happened then?” I ask encouragingly, eyes wide. But I already know what happened. I’d heard the story from Bonnie and Twill, the refugees from 8 whom I’d met at the concrete house in the woods, fleeing to District 13.

“The Bomul factory was bombed, killing everyone who worked there. Except for the Bomuls, that is, who were all conveniently sick that day. The talk is that the uprising was planned from their factory and somebody told the Capitol,” she says knowingly.   
  


“And you think the Bomuls were the informants?”

“Well, it fits.”

I shake my head. “But it makes no sense. Why would they want their own factory destroyed? And all their workers killed? What could they possibly achieve from it?”

“Information in exchange for immunity, of course. The slut’s lover was among the rebels, remember. They could have traced him, not only to the Bomul factory but to the slut herself. That brings the entire family under suspicion. So, they get in before the Capitol does. That way they are seen as being loyal to the Capitol. “   
  
“But their factory was still blown up,” I point out.  
  
“True, but the Capitol had to been seen to punish the conspirators to send a message, or look weak otherwise. After all, it was the Bomul factory where the rebellion was hatched, and it was known that at least one family member was fraternizing with the rebels. But all the Bomuls were spared, nonetheless. And, what’s more, somehow, they still had enough money to wait out the war and set themselves up in various businesses once it ended. Losing the factory was a small price to pay for their lives. “

  
“But what about their worker’s lives?”   
  
Aunt Paisley shrugs. “The workers risked their own lives with their plotting. They brought it on themselves. But it was the Bomul girl’s dalliance with a worker that brought down suspicion on every one of us, worker and owner alike. After that, factories were bombed at random as if the whole district was responsible. Look at Sateen and Arthur, their inheritance gone, family members killed. We were just lucky that the bombs didn’t fall on us.”  
  
My feeling is that Capitol bombs would have fallen anyway, even if this conspiracy theory of hers _is_ true. Besides, since when did Snow make deals? He would have taken the information and then killed them all regardless. 

“Well, I guess it’s possible,” I say carefully. I don’t want to ruin the party by getting into an argument with Aunt Paisley. “But the Bomuls _could_ have been sick that day. Perhaps with something highly infectious, especially if they were weakened from lack of food. And, as for the money, they might have retrieved the money from the factory safe, like Sateen and Arthur did.” It wasn’t as if Lace was flush with cash when she arrived in 12. Her only equipment was an old sewing machine.   
  
“Humph, don’t believe it. The Bomuls were always a disreputable bunch. Look at that Chantilly. Spreading her legs for an inferior and getting herself pregnant to boot. And her family, instead of doing the right thing by throwing the harlot out, actually had a wedding planned for the two of them. Any family who’d sell out their own social class would have no compunction selling out to the Capitol either. And no one will ever convince me otherwise,” says Aunt Paisley stoutly. 

It’s a good thing I have no intention of trying then. A part of me wants to tell her about my parents. How my Merchant mother defied social norms to marry a miner. Or remind her that I’m Seam and would have married Merchant Peeta. It dawns on me that Aunt Paisley and my maternal grandparents would have got along like a house on fire. 

After excusing myself, I seek out Tweed. There’s one question I have left to ask.   
  


“Tweed, what kind of fabric is chantilly?”

“Chantilly? It’s a type of lace.”


	15. Chapter 15

The next day I’m driven around 8 and taken to the Button factory for a tour. I’m accompanied by Tweed, his girlfriend, Velvet, and Arthur. I don’t know why Arthur came, except that he likes factories. We haven’t spoken much since I arrived here. There seems to be a tacit agreement between us to have as little to do with each other as possible without appearing to be rude. Maybe it’s partly to put to rest, once and for all, Sateen’s attempts at matchmaking, but I think it’s mostly because we find each other incredibly boring.   
  
Sateen is resting up for the big day doing nothing more strenuous than having facials and manicures with her four bridesmaids. I was invited to join them. But after a few seconds of deliberation, I decided that a factory tour would probably be the more exciting option. 

It’s a Sunday, so there’s no one working in the factory today and we wander where we like. I marvel at the long rows of workbenches each topped with a sewing machine and imagine the din they must create when run simultaneously. Certainly, enough noise for seditious plots to be made without being overheard by bosses or guards. Bonnie and Twill told me that’s how word of the uprising was passed around in the factory they had worked in.   
  
Arthur is beside me. I had hoped that he’d go off on his own and leave me to look around by myself. We had left Tweed and Velvet a short time ago to tarry a while longer in the room where the fabrics are stored. Tweed wanted to show Velvet the colours that will be fashionable this year, but from the giggles that were coming from behind the bolts of cloth as we were leaving, I don’t think that’s all he was showing her. 

“It’s very impressive,” I say, to break the silence. 

“Isn’t it?” replies Arthur. “I intend to model my own factory along similar lines. When I’ve raised the funds, that is.”  
  
I smile and nod. I’m not falling into the trap of asking how his plans are working out. He’s likely to tell me. I continue my slow walk down the rows, wishing once again that he’d go away. I’ve never felt entirely at ease with Arthur. I’ve put it down to the discomfort of not having much to say to each other and the added awkwardness of Sateen’s machinations to get us together. But today it feels almost creepy. Why did he join the party when he and I are trying to convince everyone that there’s nothing between us? To see a factory that he’s already familiar with? And why is he staying so close?

“You and old Mrs Button get along well,” says Arthur hesitantly.   
  
“Hm?” I say, in surprise. This is a huge departure from Arthur’s usual conversation. “Oh, you mean Aunt Paisley?”   
  
“Yes, Aunt Paisley. What did you think of her?” 

“Um, interesting,” I say cautiously, not sure how I should respond. I don’t know whether Arthur likes her or not. “Very firm in her opinions,” I venture. There, that’s an honest assessment and can be taken as either a positive or a negative. 

“That’s one way of putting it,” he says. “I prefer bigot, myself. She gets away with it due to her age and because she has control over most of the family’s finances. Organza told me she overheard her telling you about the Bomuls. I think you should know that it’s idle talk. The Bomuls didn’t inform on anyone. But there’s always those who like to think the worst and spread gossip with no consideration for who it might hurt. I hope . . . I hope that it doesn’t go any further.”   
  
Ah, so that’s why Arthur is here. For a chance to speak to me alone before we return to 12. But I’ve no intention of spreading the story. Few people know better than me how Snow operated. If he’d had his way, everyone associated with the factory would have been obliterated in the bombing as a warning. To workers who dare to rebel. And to owners who allow it to happen under their roof. 

“It won’t,” I assure him. “I didn’t believe it, and I wouldn’t say anything even if I did. Lace had nothing to do with it. That’s who you want to protect, isn’t it?

His face stiffens with surprise. “How did you know?”   
  
I raise an eyebrow. “Well, the name is a big giveaway, for a start. Why didn’t she change it?”   
  
Arthur grimaces as if had questioned the wisdom of it himself. “Bomul is a common name here, especially among workers. She thought that would offer some protection. In any case, not all the family wanted to change it. Her brother, the one who moved to 12, is one of them. It would have seemed odd if they had different last names. He doesn’t think the family has anything to be ashamed of. But then, he hasn’t been blamed as Tilly, I mean Lace, has.”  
  
“I already knew about Lace’s fiancé,” I reply. “I didn’t know he was a worker though. Lace gave it away when we watched an old tape of the Victory Tour. There was an incident in 11 when Peacekeepers pulled some men from the crowd to be shot. It reminded her of when her fiancé was killed.”   
  
“Yes, it would. And then losing the baby soon after too, I suppose. Poor Tilly. It was a horrendous time. For everyone in 8, actually. The rebellion had been going so well until – “  
  


“Until reinforcements came from the Capitol,” I finish for him. “And after that, the lockdown. I met a couple of refugees from 8 making their way to 13 who told me about it. They had worked in a factory specializing in Peacekeeper uniforms.”  
  
“That would’ve been the Bomul factory then. It was the only one that made them.”  
  
We come to the end of the row and Arthur gestures to me that we continue our walk along the periphery of the building and then back to where we left Tweed and Velvet. They should nearly be finished looking at fabric samples by now.   
  
“So, how do you know Lace?” I ask. And he tells me. As he does, this normally reserved man’s face is soft with a light I haven’t seen in him before. It reminds me of how Peeta once looked at me. He loves her. More than that, he’s in love with her. And he doesn’t hold out any hope, either. There’s a sad resignation in his posture, in the tone of his voice.   
  
He gives me the bones of his story. I flesh out the rest. Or “fill in the blanks”, as Peeta might say. The Bomuls and the Bobbins had known each other for years. They were not only neighbors; they were also related through marriage. An aunt of Arthur’s had married an uncle of Tilly’s. Arthur had always been a self-contained little boy who preferred to be an observer rather than a participant when it came to games and social activities. Tilly, five years younger, was sociable, exuberant, and embraced life head-on. Arthur was instantly drawn to her.   
  
When Tilly was seventeen, he asked her to be his date at the Victory Tour party. All children of prominent citizens over the age of sixteen were required to attend these parties, although it was usual to go as a pair. But Arthur, in his diffident way, gave the impression that he was asking as a friend.   
  
It probably wouldn’t have made a difference for him anyway. Tilly, like many girls her age, was too enthralled at meeting the latest heartthrob, Peeta Mellark, to be aware that the quiet young man she had known since childhood, felt anything other than friendship for her. Meeting Katniss Everdeen was less exciting. She was, after all, an impediment – something that stood between her and her heart’s desire. Nonetheless, she wore her ash brown hair in the side-braid that Katniss had made fashionable. If Peeta liked it, then Tilly would do it.   
  
But unfortunately for Tilly, although Peeta was friendly and polite, he paid her no more attention than any other girl there. His eyes were all for Katniss. Tilly was heartbroken. But at least one person was hopeful. Now that that infatuation had been deflated, maybe there was a chance for him.   
  
No such luck, however. Tilly very soon after fell in love with one of her family’s employees. A fiery young man with dark hair, dark eyes and dangerous ideas. When Tilly became pregnant to him, her family was initially very upset and disappointed. Inter-class marriages just didn’t happen in District 8. There was condemnation all round, and the general feeling was that Tilly should be shunned by polite society, and made to work in a factory since she had so obviously shown her preference for the people who worked in them. But her family didn’t want that. They decided to make the best of it and planned for the couple a small quiet wedding to be attended by close family and friends. The few who were still talking to them, that is.   
  
But then the rebellion happened. It had escalated so quickly, that anyone who wasn’t directly involved was caught unawares. The wedding would have to wait. At first, everyone was hopeful that the rebellion would succeed, but then the Capitol sent in thousands of Peacekeepers to retake the city and shoot to kill anyone they saw in the streets. People desperately tried to make it safely back to their homes. Tilly witnessed the panic from a window in the apartment where she and her family lived. Her fiancé was among those who ran for their lives. He almost made it when he was shot through the head, his blood and brains spattering the cobblestoned street. 

A few days later, Tilly miscarried. Terrible days of depression followed, compounded by the lack of food and fuel from the enforced lockdown. Then the entire family was stricken with a gastro complaint – “the runs” we called it in Seam – which left them incapacitated when an order came from the Capitol to return to work. Later that day, the Bomul factory was bombed killing everyone in it.   
  
As often happens when something goes wrong people look for someone to blame. They settled on the Bomuls. Conveniently ill that day, they said. The daughter involved with a known rebel sympathizer, they said. Clearly, they had informed on their workers to save their own skins. There was no proof that the allegations were true but it didn’t stop the talk. It didn’t help that the Bomuls had the resources to keep themselves afloat during the war despite the loss of their factory while the rest of the populace struggled. They didn’t accept their explanation that they had retrieved the money from the factory’s safe. It was blood money, they said. Given to them by the Capitol in exchange for information.   
  
While the war came to an end, the grudge against the Bomuls did not. Their reputation was in tatters. And particularly that of Chantilly Bomul. The family took the last of their savings and gave it to Tilly to start a new life in a new district. She had with her the basic tools of the clothing trade, including an old, but still workable, sewing machine. Her real talent was design but she sewed well enough to pass as a seamstress. Other family members were to follow later, once they had the means.   
  
Meanwhile, life hadn’t been easy for the Bobbins either. Their factory was also bombed and they barely escaped with their lives. A week later, their few remaining relatives were killed in a separate bombing. Arthur and Sateen were now on their own. However, they too had managed to retrieve money from the factory safe but they lived sparsely, careful to avoid the censure that had dogged the Bomuls. And, as there was only two of them, there were sufficient funds left by the end of the war to fully outfit a shop, in whichever district they chose to set up business.   
  
For Arthur there was only one choice. And that was District 12 where Tilly had settled. He hoped to not only rekindle their friendship but also persuade her to consider him as a suitor. Alas, it was not to be. Not only had Tilly changed her name, her hair colour, and concocted a story about her background, she had also entered into a relationship with none other than Peeta Mellark, for whom she was as infatuated as ever. Arthur swallowed his pain and supported her as best as he could, although as a friend and not the lover he wanted to be.   
  
“Peeta should be told,” I say when Arthur stops speaking. “He has a right to know.”  
  
Arthur nods. “I’ve told Tilly that. But once you’ve told a lie, it’s hard to walk it back.”  
  
“He’ll understand. He’s good like that,” I reply. Yes, Peeta won’t hold any ill-will, once he knows why Lace hasn’t been honest with him. But he might be angry if she continues to keep it from him and he hears it from someone else. Trust is important to Peeta. But will Lace tell him? I only know that it can’t come from me. It will look like interference and bad grace on my part. I’m not supposed to be involved in his life anymore, anyway. But Haymitch could do it. Yes, I’ll tell Haymitch when I’m back in 12. Then it’s his problem to decide whether to tell Peeta or not.   
  
Arthur and I are almost back to where we started when Tweed and Velvet emerge from the storeroom. It must be an exciting colour palette this season, to judge by the flush on Velvet’s face. We bundle back into the car to drive to a nearby restaurant to meet the immediate family for an early dinner. Sateen has that look back in her eye as her gaze flits between Arthur and me. But at least I have a greater understanding for why she does it. It’s more than just wanting Arthur to settle down. She wants him to move on from Lace. That this love he’s cherished for so long is destined to go nowhere. It occurs to me that at last Arthur and I have something in common. We’re both in love with people who are not in love with us. And who just happens to be in love with each other. 

Since Arthur’s dilemma reminds me so much of my own situation, it doesn’t put me in the best mood for the wedding the following day. But at least we have one thing in our favour. It’s not Peeta and Lace’s wedding, although it wouldn’t surprise me if they were the next of our acquaintance to get engaged. Peeta would want to marry. He’s a romantic who believes in one true love and a happy-ever-after. Only it’s not with me anymore. It’s with Lace. 

As for Lace, she’s got herself the victor she fantasized about. Rich too. That should help with bringing the rest of the family out to 12. No, that’s not fair. Maybe she does really love him. The man himself. Not just the image. He’s a lot to take on, though. With the memory loss, and the flashbacks. She doesn’t understand him, as I do. Or knows where he comes from, and where he’s been. And what does Peeta know about Lace, really? He hasn’t even had the truth from her. But Arthur knows her. He has the same background, the same determination to succeed. But the heart wants what the heart wants, as the saying goes. Maybe it will work out. There’s a part of me that hopes that they do marry. The sooner the better. To get it over and done with so I can get on with my life too.   
  
The wedding takes place in a converted warehouse owned by the Buttons, freshly renovated and decorated with winter foliage and white tulle. The bridesmaids wear floaty pastel gowns and matching wide-brimmed hats. Sateen wears ivory satin and greenery in her mahogany hair. It takes a moment for me to recognize it as a copy of one of the gowns Cinna designed for my wedding to Peeta. That reminds me of how close we came to marrying. I console myself with the thought that it would have been awful, anyway. I didn’t want to marry then. I only got engaged to save people’s lives. And we would’ve lived in fear of our children being reaped. But now, if he asked me . . . Well, there’s no point in thinking of such things. Truth be told, I doubt Peeta’s fit to marry anyone right now.   
  
Roy is elegant in a dark suit, with greenery in the buttonhole of his lapel to match the bride’s headpiece. I wonder if Arthur made the suit for him. It looks like his work. Best man Tweed seems ill at ease in a suit identical to Roy’s. I think he’d rather have been a bridesmaid. At least then he would have got to wear something more colourful.   
  
After the words are spoken, a ritual unique to District 8 follows. It’s called “threading the needle.” The bride holds in front of her a large wooden replica of a sewing needle. Then the best man threads a length of stiffened rope through the eye and the groom pulls it all the way through. Max would love it. It would keep him going for weeks with jokes about what happens on wedding nights in 8. They then sing an ancient wedding song, which likens marriage to sewing a garment. I wonder if Peeta and Lace will include this when they marry. I don’t want to think about them having a toasting.   
  


There’s food, and speeches and dancing after. I don’t know any of the District 8 dances, so I stand to the side, clapping my hands and trying my best to look as if I’m having a good time. Sateen and Roy are at the center of the couples swirling around them, gently swaying to the music and smiling into each other’s eyes. Arthur, dancing dutifully with one of the bridesmaids, shuffles past and we momentarily lock glances. We seem to know what the other is thinking. Today we celebrate one marriage, and tomorrow we dread news of another. 


	16. Chapter 16

The fresh meat in the fridge and the canned food are where I left them, untouched. I’m annoyed but not surprised. Haymitch neglects to feed himself, let alone a neighbour’s cat. Peeta would have been the reliable choice to take care of Buttercup’s needs while I was gone. But I didn’t want to ask him, so that left Haymitch. But Buttercup hasn’t starved despite the pitiful mewing and reproachful looks he greets me with. I left him a mountain of dry cat food and he’s more than capable of feeding himself, anyway. It might do him some good to keep up his hunting skills and catch his own food for a change. That goes for me too. There’s still a week to go of the winter break before school resumes and I intend to spend every one of those days in the woods.   
  
Before I do, I check in with Haymitch. I want to tell him what I discovered about Lace. I thought of nothing else on the long train journey home. No, that’s not quite true. Lulled by the gentle rocking of the train, I fell into a doze and I couldn’t help memories of other train journeys drifting in. Of nights with Peeta, safe and snug in his strong arms, the comforting rise and fall of his chest against my cheek, a slight breeze from an open window fanning my skin. I had to give myself a shake and a stern talking to. Allowing myself to indulge in such thoughts won’t help me.  
  
To my surprise, Haymitch is neither here nor there about my news. I thought he’d be as concerned as I am.  
  
“Look, if he was about to marry the girl, I might feel that I’d have to step in. But what of great importance has she kept from him, exactly? He already knows about the pregnancy and miscarriage. Half the country is pretending to be something they’re not, depending on where they settle. Old hatreds die hard and the war didn’t change that. What’s a name change and a little stretching of the truth if it keeps the peace? Besides, he won’t thank us. He’s sure to see it as interference. I say let sleeping dogs lie. For the moment, anyway. And who knows, maybe she’ll tell him herself in good time. She might be forced to anyway if Arthur tells her that you know. She’ll want to get in before you do.” 

Haymitch reaches for another cookie. I found a bag of them at my front door and brought them over to share. A welcome home gift from Peeta, I assume. He keeps me well supplied.   
  
I have to admit that he does have a point. I wouldn’t expose my former prep team. They have also bent the truth about their past to fit into a new district. To their mind, they’ve done nothing wrong. They thought they were helping the tributes by presenting them as attractively as they could. But others, perhaps like Gale had, wouldn’t see it that way and would rather see them tarred and feathered and run out of 12.  
  
I try a different tack. “It doesn’t seem right, that’s all. You know Peeta has trust issues. It’s important that what he’s told is real. How is he going to get better if people lie to him? People he’s supposed to trust? He’ll go straight back to doubting what’s real or not real.”  
  
“Then he learns not to take everyone at face value. What do you care, anyway? I thought you were cutting him from your life,” he says.

“I am. But it doesn’t mean I don’t care what happens to him. I want him to be happy. And I don’t think he’ll be happy being lied to. Didn’t you tell me that I have to be honest with him because if I’m not, then he won’t trust me with the truth? I don’t know why it should be any different for Lace.”  
  
“We weren’t talking about Lace. We were talking about you,” Haymitch points out. “Lace isn’t the key to his past. You are. Whatever she did before they met, it didn’t involve him. In any case, I don’t think you’re in a position to lecture anyone about honesty.”  
  
“What does that mean?” I ask, my hackles rising.  
  
“I mean that you’re not being honest with him either. You say you want nothing more to do with him, yet I see you walking into town with him most mornings. What’s Peeta supposed to make of it?”   
  
“He’s the one who waits for me!” I splutter indignantly. “What am I supposed to do? Just ignore him and pretend he doesn’t exist? ”  
  
“You could tell him the truth.”

Not this again. Haymitch and I will never agree on what I should do about Peeta. “I’ve done nothing _but_ tell the truth, much good it’s done me. Whatever he’s asked, I’ve answered as honestly as I can. If he asks, I’ll tell him. But he doesn’t ask. We’ve been over this before. Peeta’s moved on and I want to as well. He doesn’t want to lose the friendship, that’s all. That’s why he hangs around me so much.”

I understand exactly what Peeta is feeling. I went through it with Gale. Clinging to the friendship and giving hope when there wasn’t any. But it wasn’t fair to him. And this isn’t fair to me. Turning someone loose can be the kindest thing you can do for them. Peeta would agree with me if he knew.  
  
“Peeta can’t have us both - me to hang-out with, and Lace to . . . well, whatever it is they do together,” I say.  
  
“I’ll take a guess as to what Peeta and Lace get up to,” says Haymitch, giving me an arch look. “Peeta’s a healthy young adult, physically anyway, and we know Lace has had at least one lover, so my guess is – “  
  
“Just shut up about it, Haymitch,” I say irritably. I know what he’s doing. It’s a tactic he’s tried before. He’s trying to goad me to act. “I really don’t care what they do.”  
  
“Yes you do, despite whatever nonsense you’re telling yourself.” Haymitch rises from his chair to shamble over to a sideboard piled with books, discarded bottles and loose bits of paper. “I don’t know what they do together. Peeta hardly mentions her. They could be doing jigsaw puzzles for all I know.”   
  
“Peeta doesn’t like jigsaw puzzles.”

Haymitch doesn’t answer. He’s busy sorting through the papers. “Ah, here it is. The council asked me to pass this on.” Haymitch hands me a long white envelope addressed to me. There’s a coffee stain ring left by a cup resting on it.  
  
“How long have you had this?” I ask.  
  
“Not long. A few days, maybe. It’s a job offer. Apparently, you left your name with the council a while back.”  
  
I had forgotten about that. That was the day I went looking for work. I found a job at the bakery and Max approached me to work at the school. The council wasn’t hiring at the time, but I left my name and credentials in case anything became available.   
  
I tear open the envelope and pull out the letter. “They want me to act as a guide for some man who’s surveying the woods or something. It will have to fit with my job at the school if I do it. If they’re happy with three days over weekends it could work out.” 

I stuff the letter into my pocket. I want to get home now. I’ve told Haymitch about Lace and now it’s up to him. His favourite soap will be on soon and I know he doesn’t like to miss it. “One Life to Live” – the saga of two rival families and forbidden love.   
  
“I’ll go now and let you get back to the TV,” I tell him. “Maybe tonight Blake and Celia will get their act together. How long have they dragged this out? Two seasons?”  
  
“Three. And they won’t. Because they’re idiots. It’s my curse to be surrounded by them.”  
  
I give Haymitch a baleful look. It’s wasted because his back is to me as he reaches for the TV remote. I get my revenge by snatching up the bag with the cookies and dashing out the door before he has time to protest.   
  
A short time later, I’ve settled in for some television watching of my own with a cup of tea and the bag of cookies. I don’t remember Peeta making this kind before – soft, buttery with the outside rolled in cinnamon and sugar. I’m glad I didn’t leave them with Haymitch. I flick through the channels. There’s been an explosion of them since Plutarch became secretary of communications. He sets the programming for the airwaves. We have him to thank for “One Life to Live” of which he took over as executive producer.   
  
I switch to a news program. It’s a piece about that Muir person I read about. The one who wants to go around establishing national parks. He’s currently in 7, lamenting how much woodland has been sacrificed for commercial timber production. He wants legislation put in place immediately to stop further damage. The logging companies don’t support it. They had hoped that with the overthrow of the Snow regime, the woods would be opened up as a sort of a free-for-all. But Muir’s managed to raise a lot of support from the local community. They’ve formed protest groups and do bizarre things like chaining themselves to trees. One woman, who looks suspiciously like Johanna Mason, has gone one step further and has chained herself naked to a large oak. The camera, after a lengthy time showing her in long shot, zooms in on her face. Yes, it’s Johanna. And having the time of her life, by the look of it.   
  
The program goes to a commercial break. I flick through a few more channels before settling on “One Life to Live.” I wouldn’t admit it to Haymitch, but I do watch it occasionally. It’s so slow-moving you can miss entire episodes and still pick up the plot easily. 

Celia Chastely and Blake Knight are from families who at odds. The Chastelys own a large agricultural farm in District 11 somewhere near the border of District 5. They are committed to the production of organic fruits and vegetables, chemical-free and using only sustainable farming methods. The Knights, from District 5, are oil barons whose fields show signs of running dry. However, they’ve identified a rich oil reservoir on adjoining land. The difficulty is that this land belongs to the Chastelys who refuse to allow the Knights access. They don’t want anything to compromise the integrity of their produce.   
  
Celia and Blake first met when they were aged about eleven. Celia was riding her horse – an activity her parents encouraged as a healthy form of exercise and an efficient method of delivering organic fertilizer in the form of horse manure to the outlying orchards. Blake had accompanied his father to inspect a new rig and had wandered down to the boundary fence with the idea of scaling it to help himself to an apple, or two.   
  
Just as Blake leapt down from the tree, Celia came upon him. Her horse startled and she was thrown. She wasn’t injured, being more shocked than anything. Angry at first, she was soon won over by Blake’s concern and help in retrieving her horse. It was the start of a covert friendship. Neither dared tell their parents about it, afraid that they would be forbidden to see each other.   
  
Over time, friendship turned to love. When they were sixteen Blake told Celia he was in love with her. But Celia, confused about her feelings, but knowing that a union between them could only end in sorrow, told Blake she didn’t feel the same way and they must stop seeing each other. Blake was crushed but he had no choice but to accede to Celia’s wishes.   
  


Celia lived up to her name. Beautiful but unattainable, suitors came and went, defeated by Celia’s impenetrable veneer of purity. Blake, reeling from the pain of unrequited love, fell for the wiles of the conniving Ginger Morgan, girl-on-the-make.  
  
As they move about in society – parties, balls, hayrides - Celia and Blake are often in the same company. Coolly polite when they interact, they are unaware of the deep, passionate love each has for the other. Celia is convinced that Blake loves Ginger, and Blake is convinced that Celia can never love him. In tonight’s episode, Blake proposes marriage to Ginger after she tells him she’s pregnant with his baby. The child’s father is actually the lead guitarist in a rock band with whom Ginger had a brief fling a few months ago. Celia has an emotional breakdown when she hears and the episode ends with Celia standing at her bedroom window, tears streaming down her face.

I grab the remote and turn off the TV in disgust. The whole situation makes me want to throw up. Fools! Why can’t they just be honest with each other? Why do they always assume to know what the other is thinking? Communication! That’s all it would take. Their problems aren’t insurmountable. I don’t know why I watch this rubbish.   
  


But I guess it did, at least, get my mind off what Haymitch hinted at before when we talked about what Peeta and Lace do together. It’s been niggling at me since he said it. It’s not something I haven’t guessed but it’s another to thing to have Haymitch bring it up. It makes it more real, somehow, that it’s not just me who thinks it. Of course, they would be having sex. Peeta is nearly twenty. Lace must be twenty-one if she was seventeen at the time of our victor’s tour. And she’s had sex before. She’d be experienced then. Do men like that? I suppose they must. I can’t imagine it would be as enjoyable with someone who doesn’t know what they’re doing. Like me.   
  
In my dreams that night, I’m at the Mayor’s party in my midnight blue Cinna dress with the diamonds. Max spins me around and diamonds pop off in every direction, whizzing through the air and hitting people close by, including Lace who is struck on the side of her head. Peeta frowns at me, at first in disapproval and then in disgust. I look down at my dress and see that it’s disintegrated into a pile of ash at my feet. I’m naked except for my silver high heeled shoes. I hear someone call out “Katniss Ever-ready.” Is it Max? I don’t know. All my focus is on Peeta as he grabs Lace by the hand and leads her through a set of swinging double doors. I follow them into a labyrinth of dark passageways, intersecting, and twisting this way and that. I soon lose sight of them in the darkness and I’m afraid that I might be lost in there forever. My feet hurt and I take off my shoes, holding them in one hand and using the other to feel my way along the passage walls. 

Presently I hear what sounds like soft grunts. I follow the sound, listening carefully as it grows louder until I come to the end of the passage where it intersects with another. In one direction there’s darkness, but the other is flooded with light. But when I turn into the lit passage, relieved to have found a way out, I freeze with shock. There, standing directly under a wall sconce, and bathed in light, is Peeta and Lace. My brain registers every detail. I don’t know how, because I’m incapable of ordered thought. But like a camera, it records every image. Every nuance. And this is something I’d like so much to forget.  
  
Peeta’s back is to me. Lace is behind him, her back pressed against the wall. His pants are slack around his hips. Her dress is rucked up around hers, one leg wraps his waist. His hand squeezes her breast, while the other is tangled in her hair. His face is mashed against hers, mouths working feverously together. His hips thrust rhythmically into hers. With every thrust, her leg tightens around him. With every thrust, one, or both of them, grunt. 

My shoes slip from my fingers and fall to the ground with a clatter. Peeta slowly turns his head in my direction, but his hips keep thrusting. He’s grinning at me. “Katniss,” he says. “Why so shocked? You’re so . . . pure.”  
  
Lace is mocking. “So pure,” she repeats scornfully. “No wonder he turned elsewhere.”  
  
I turn heel and run, back into the darkness where I don’t have to see such things. “Virgin, virgin, stupid, stupid virgin,” Lace calls after me. They both laugh, Peeta loudest of all.   
  
I wake sweating and with a racing heart. It was just a dream, I tell myself, just a dream. But at the Mayor’s party, they really did disappear behind a set of swinging double doors. I didn’t dream that. It happened. And Peeta did leave with Lace after Max spun me around when we danced. And Lace’s hair was mussed when they eventually returned to the party. I’m convinced now that if I had followed them, I would have caught them having sex. Not just making out. But having sex. Probably in some dark corner somewhere, rutting like animals, and grunting like the pig the Mellarks kept behind their shop. What else would they have been doing? Couldn’t even wait until they got home. How tacky! How disrespectful! I hate him! Hate him, hate him, hate him! 


	17. Chapter 17

It’s fortunate that I don’t see Peeta until the day when school resumes. I’ve since calmed down and made myself see reason. It was only a dream, after all. I don’t know what they did behind those swinging double doors. But even if Peeta and Lace did sneak away for sex, it’s none of my business. There was never an understanding between us and there certainly isn’t one now. Peeta’s free to have sex with whoever he likes. As am I. It’s of no comfort though, the thought of having sex with whomever I like. The only one I want to have sex with is Peeta.   
  
As soon as I see him, I’m ashamed of myself. His open, honest face glows with pleasure when I emerge from my house. He’s waiting to walk with me into town as he does every work day. None of this is his fault. I need to remind myself of it constantly. This jealousy of mine gets worse, not better as I hoped it would. I just want the torture to end.   
  
“Thanks for the cookies you left for me. They were delicious,” I say. Guilt makes me say the first kind thought that comes into my head.   
  
Peeta smiles at me. “You’re welcome. There’s a story behind those cookies. It’s an old family recipe, but do you think I could remember it?” He shakes his head. “I must have baked thousands of them when I worked in the bakery. But I just couldn’t replicate it. Something was always missing. But then Dr Aurelius suggested that I stop trying. To just go through the motions and not think about it except to keep the final result in mind. So, I creamed butter with sugar, like I usually do when I make cookies, but when I went into the pantry for baking soda, I also found myself reaching for cream of tartar. And that was it! That’s what was missing. You don’t have snickerdoodles without it.”  
  
“Is that what they’re called? Snickerdoodles? I like the name. I ate almost all of them in a single sitting. Well, not almost all of them,” I add, in case I sound like the glutton I really am. “Haymitch helped.”   
  
“Dr Aurelius said that technique might help with regaining other memories. To re-enact them, without thinking about it too much, while I visualize what I do remember,” he says.  
  
“Maybe,” I say. “I guess it can’t hurt.” I don’t have high hopes, despite memories coming back. Not the way Peeta interprets everything.   
  
“How was the wedding?” Peeta asks.   
  
“It was good. Sateen got the wedding she wanted. Lots of tulle, lots of guests, lots of bridesmaids. And the Buttons were very welcoming. They had a dinner for me and showed me around 8. It’s changed a lot from how we remember it. I mean, how I remember it,” I quickly correct myself.   
  
“I remember quite a lot about 8, actually. Grey and depressing. Nothing but factories and tenements.”  
  
I nod. “That’s it.” A thought comes into my head. “Do you remember the Victory tour party?”  
  
“Yes. Not that there was anything particularly memorable about it. It was just as awful as the rest of them.”  
  
He doesn’t remember meeting Lace then. He’d mention it if he did.

“It’s much better for factory workers now,” I say. “Most of the tenements are gone, and they’ve been replaced with nice new apartments with courtyards. And there’s plenty of parks and gardens too. And shops of every kind. Lace would barely recognize it. Does she ever talk about going back, even to visit?” 

  
“Lace doesn’t talk about 8. Too many painful memories, I suppose.” I watch Peeta’s face carefully for any change of expression, but there is none. My guess is that she still hasn’t told him. Haymitch either.   
  
“Yeah, I guess,” I say. And too much to hide, I silently add.   
  
I hitch the straps of my pack forward to ease some of the weight off my shoulders. It’s heavy with books I borrowed from the Matsons to read over the break. They’re training me to take a more active role in the classroom. At the moment I teach nature studies and assist Moira with the little ones. The Matsons want me to have a class of my own teaching first graders. They say it’s the next step. And needed too, with the school expanding as it is.   
  
“Here, let me take that,” says Peeta, taking the pack from me and lifting it to his own shoulders.   
  
“There’s no need,” I protest. But I’m happy to have Peeta carry it. My back feels deliciously light to be relieved of its burden.   
  
“Did Arthur enjoy the wedding?” Peeta asks.   
  
“Oh, um, I suppose,” I say, with a laugh. “He seemed to, although I don’t think social occasions in general are Arthur’s thing. Not unless there are business contacts to be made, that is. Why do you ask?” I’m curious why Peeta wants to know. It was his sister’s wedding. And he’d be among people he had known for years. Why wouldn’t he enjoy it?  
  
“Just something Lace said. About how boring weddings are in 8 and she was glad she didn’t have to go. Lace loves parties so that’s really saying something. She seemed to think Arthur was in for a miserable time.”  
  
“Oh,” I say, considering it. It sounds like sour grapes to me. She’d know what kind of wedding Sateen would have. Lace is a long-standing friend of Arthur and Sateen’s and a member of the owner class herself. I’m certain she would have been invited if the circumstances were different. But, as things are, it would have been impossible. People like Aunt Paisley would have made mincemeat out of her. Maybe even boycotted the wedding if it was known she’d be there. How galling it must be that I got to go when she didn’t. Perhaps she’d imagined that I’d have a great fuss made over me too. But why single out Arthur, rather than me, for not having a good time? It would make more sense to hope that I’d be the one who’d be miserable. Unless . . . she thinks Arthur is interested in me. Sateen could have given her that impression. And she also saw Arthur and me having lunch together. Why, she’s jealous! Jealous that Arthur’s devotion might go to another. And to me, of all people. How ironic for Arthur, if that all he had to do to get Lace’s attention was to appear to look elsewhere.  
  
“Well, I suppose Lace’s experience with weddings in 8 would be as a factory worker,” I say. “If they’re anything like the weddings in Seam, it would have been no big deal.” A trip to the Justice Building. A small celebration with close family and friends and maybe some cake, if it could be afforded. And then escorting the newlyweds to their new home to sing the traditional song as they crossed the threshold. The final ceremony, the toasting, was a private one. That was a typical Seam wedding.   
  
Again, I watch Peeta’s expression. There’s no change when I mention factory worker.   
  
“Yeah, I guess that would be it,” says Peeta, not looking entirely convinced.   
  
We walk in companionable silence for a little while. It’s a beautiful day. Clear blue skies, the snow glistening in the sunlight. It reminds me of other walks into town with Peeta before he was hijacked. He’d take me by the hand as we walked. It was part of the act, of course. We had to be seen to be lovers when we were in public. But it felt so natural, I was never aware that that’s what it was. I must have loved him then, without realizing it.   
  
The memory makes it that much harder for what I must do next. I can’t continue as things are. I want an end to it. I want no more dreams like I had the other night.   
  
I take a deep breath. Courage, Everdeen. “So, when are you and Lace getting married?” I ask brightly.   
  
Peeta appears startled and it takes a few moments for him to answer. “What? Married? I haven’t even thought about it. We haven’t known each other for that long.”  
  
“It’s almost a year since you started dating. My parents married after only a few months. Not that they dated, exactly, but you know what I mean. I just thought . . . well, the two of you seem to be very much in love. And when you’ve found that one special person you’re meant to be with . . .” I say, trailing off.   
  
“You think Lace is the one I’m meant to be with?” he asks, somewhat dubiously.   
  
“Well, I don’t know. Only you can answer that. But if you’re sure, and there’s no one else, I can’t see the point of dragging things out. We’ve both lost people close to us. Who knows how much time we have? Maybe we should grab what we can, while we can.”  
  
“I suppose you have a point. But marriage . . . it’s a big step to take. I don’t know what Lace thinks about it either.”  
  
“There’s only one way to find out.” Lace will jump at it. Married to the man of her fantasies, it’s a dream come true. “But she seems smitten with you. It’s the same for you, isn’t it? Love at first sight, being a good boyfriend more important than anything.” I can’t help sounding bitter at this, but Peeta doesn’t seem to notice. His brow is creased in thought. It’s the same expression he has when he’s trying to make sense of his tangle of memories. What’s real or not real.   
  
“I try to be a good boyfriend,” he says, uncertainly. “I don’t know. I’ll have to give it some thought. But _you_ think it’s a good idea?” He peers intently at me as if the answer is to be found in me somehow. 

“It’s not about what _I_ think, Peeta. It’s what _you_ think. She’s the girl of your dreams, isn’t she?”

At this, Peeta seems more confused than ever. Worse, he looks almost panicked. Suddenly I’m sorry I brought the subject up. I was sure I was only voicing what Peeta was already thinking. It was just to give him a nudge in the direction he was going in anyway. And to give him permission to do as he wanted, in case his need to hold on to my friendship was holding him back, as mine did with Gale.   
  
“Look, I’m sorry I mentioned it. It’s none of my business who, or when, you marry. Please forget what I said. I have marriage on the brain from Sateen’s wedding, that’s all.”  
  
Peeta nods, and we lapse into silence again. But the sense of peacefulness has gone. I have this awful feeling that I’ve planted a seed – a seed that might not have existed before. Peeta is vulnerable to suggestion. I hope I haven’t steered him in the wrong direction.   
  


I reap what I’ve sown a week later. It’s late on a Sunday morning when Haymitch comes into my house unannounced. I’ve just returned from a hunt, my game bag still in hand, and eager to change out of my clothes as soon as possible. I’d slipped and fallen in a puddle of melting snow. My back is sodden.

He gets right down to it. “I have some news about Peeta. You’ll want to sit down for this.”

“Just tell me,” I say. I dump my game bag onto the kitchen bench and turn to face him. He looks worried and that makes me worried. “Has something bad happened?”  
  
“You could say that. He’s got himself engaged. To Lace.”  
  


I stare blankly at him. “Right,” I finally get out. I clutch the back of a kitchen chair to keep myself steady. “Well, I suppose it’s not unexpected. It’s been coming for some time. As long as Peeta is happy.”   
  
“Oh, he’s happy, alright. He’s whistling about the place, he’s so happy. He was at my house almost at the crack of dawn to announce the news. I’ve been waiting for you to return so I could warn you before he comes here.”  
  
“Thank you, but Peeta and I don’t visit each other’s homes anymore. Not without an invitation,” I say. My voice sounds abnormally calm. I don’t know what’s the matter with me. I should be devastated. But I just feel numb.   
  
“Katniss, it’s alright to be upset. I know it’s a shock. But we have to stop it. He can’t marry in the state he’s in. And we barely know the girl, except that she’s lied about who she is,” he says.   
  
“Maybe Dr Aurelius will talk to him. But I think we should let him be. I’ve interfered enough. I just make him worse, whatever I do.” I did this. This is my fault. I thought I was doing him a favour. But I was just being selfish like I always am. I wanted an end to it. Not for Peeta’s sake, but my own. And I got my wish. I put the thought of marriage into his head, just as I put the notion of her being his girlfriend into his head.   
  
“He loves Lace. I know he does. And I think she loves him,” I say. “We have to let him find his own happiness, whether we agree with it or not. He deserves that, after everything.”

“What he deserves is to be protected from himself until he’s well enough to make that kind of decision on his own,” Haymitch argues. He runs a hand through his hair and begins pacing the room. “Fuck, it was those tapes. I should have been more forthcoming with him. Came straight out with it, instead of fucking around, only revealing bits of information at a time. I’m sorry, Katniss, but this is my fault.”

This gets my attention. How could it be both our fault? “Why? What’s been on the tapes?”   
  
“Until recently, not a lot that involved you. Aurelius had to change the sequence when you dropped out, so there was a delay before he got back into it. But then what he mostly sent was Peeta’s own game before you allied with him. How he got in with the careers, the two of you in the training centre, that sort of thing. But the last one . . . It was the interview you both did with Caesar after you won the Games. He asked if it was part of the act. And I told him that you were acting, but he wasn’t. And then, later on the train journey home, why I told the two of you to keep up the act a little longer. That it was to give you an out – so that you wouldn’t have to keep up the pretence once the cameras were gone.”   
  


I think back to the Caesar Flickerman interviews after Peeta and I won the Games. I’d played the romance angle for all it was worth, and thought Peeta was doing the same. But what had been a strategy for me, had been real for him. When the truth came out, it caused a rift that wouldn’t heal until we were forced back into each other’s company for the Victory Tour.   
  
“What did he say?” I ask.  
  
“Nothing! Not one question, except to ask if I wanted another drink. But his face had gone white as if he’d just received bad news. And then he left the room. And when he came back a few minutes later with a pot of tea, he was normal again.” He stops his pacing for a moment. “I don’t even drink tea.”

“But that shouldn’t have upset Peeta. He knew I was acting, and last I heard, he thought he was too. The worst that could have happened is that he’s gone back to thinking it was an illusion, rather than an illusion of an illusion. You know, that he did feel love for me, but it was based on an illusion.” I give my head a shake to clear it. “I mean, it still doesn’t count. And, even if it did, I don’t see how it would make him propose to Lace.”   
  
I hear a note of hysteria creep into my voice. The numbness is starting to leave and feeling is coming back. Despite my wet, dirty clothes, I unhook my fingers from the back of the chair and sit down on its padded seat. My legs are having trouble keeping me up.  
  
“He could have dropped the illusion thing altogether and now believes that what he felt for you was real, even if you didn’t return it,” he says.   
  
“But that still doesn’t explain anything. Even if he thinks it _was_ real, it doesn’t mean he still feels it. Why would he marry Lace, if he’s in love with me?” And then it dawns on me. He wouldn’t. Peeta _is_ following his own inclinations. He wouldn’t marry one girl if he was in love with another. He has his parent’s unhappy marriage as an example of how disastrous that can be. The girlfriend thing, the proposal, was simply Peeta’s need for my permission to move forward. Without his memory, he would have had no way of deciphering the real from the not real. So, he looked to me to either confirm or deny before he made any decision that would contradict the stories he’s been told.   
  
Haymitch’s voice cuts across my thoughts. “Who knows what’s going on in the boy’s head? All I know is that what’s in there is either incomplete or distorted. This method of feeding him odd bits of his past hasn’t worked.” He stops his pacing to stand in front of me. “You have to tell him. Everything. Hold nothing back.”  
  
“No! No. Absolutely not,” I say in horror. “I told you. He’s not in love with me. He told me he’s not. Hasn’t it been bad enough that I’ve had to watch him with Lace? That everyone I meet wonders why Peeta dumped me for her? Now you want to add another layer of humiliation. He’ll just tell me it’s her he loves. Peeta mightn’t have all his memories, but he knows what he feels. I know him. He wouldn’t marry unless he had given his whole heart. He saw how miserable his parents were.”   
  
Haymitch snorts in frustration. “He wouldn’t if he was thinking straight. Well, I can’t force you. But I’m going to do everything in my power to dissuade him. If you decide to get on board, let me know.”  
  
And with that, Haymitch is gone. I sit awhile, lacking the energy to get up. Maybe, if I stay in this chair, and not move, the world can go on as its always done, and I don’t have to deal with it. It takes a concerted effort to rise and trek upstairs to my bedroom to change out of my damp clothes. From my window, I see white clouds scudding across blue skies. I hear birds chirp, as if in celebration of the coming spring. My eyes drift downwards, to the road outside my house. Peeta is there, striding jauntily towards the town. He’s happy. Shouldn’t that be enough? But when I raise my hand to my cheek, it comes away wet. 


	18. Chapter 18

Before I see Peeta the next day, I work hard at composing myself. I want to be convincing when I tell him that I’m delighted that he and Lace are to marry. I’d seriously thought of sneaking out of the Village half an hour earlier to avoid him but then decided it would only delay the inevitable and it was better to get it over and done with. So here he is, waiting in his usual spot, at the usual time, sporting a bashful smile and, weirdly, sunglasses. It’s eight in the morning and a dull day.   
  
When the usual pleasantries have been exchanged, Peeta, after a nervous cough, announces his engagement to Lace. “There’s going be a toasting. I’ve asked Lace to marry me.”  
  
I fix a smile to my face. If I pretend that I’m in front of a Capitol audience, I can get through this. It doesn’t have to be real. People see what they want to see. “That’s wonderful news!” I gush. “Congratulations.”   
  
“Thanks,” he says. “I know it’s sudden. But I feel so good when I’m with her. And, as you said, we don’t know how much time any of us have, so we should make the most of it. Besides, how many times does a person get to fall in love?”  
  


I should be used to it by now. But it’s like I’ve been erased. And it hurts. “It varies. For most people, more than once,” I say.  
  
I don’t think Peeta hears, or if he did, he ignores it, because he continues as if I hadn’t spoken. “Lace’s family is coming in August, so we’ll have the wedding then. Her brother and his wife are already here, and there’s a friend in 8 who’ll want to come. So that’s quite a few people from her side. Not many from mine, though,” he says sadly. “Delly’s the only childhood friend I still have and she’s in 6. I want to ask Haymitch to stand for me. Eight has a tradition where one member from each family welcomes the new member into it. Haymitch is the closest I have to a father now.” I don’t remember that tradition at Sateen’s wedding. Perhaps it was during the speeches. There were so many that I tuned out on most of them.  
  
“I’m sure Haymitch would be happy to,” I say. Haymitch won’t be, but I’m positive he won’t refuse. He’ll think it’s more important to be there for Peeta than ever, but he’ll be fighting it all the way.   
  
“This is where it gets awkward,” Peeta says. “I know it’s strange with the star-crossed lovers and everything. And technically you _are_ my ex-fiancée. But Katniss, I’d love you to be there. If it’s okay with you, that is.”  
  
I can hardly believe my ears. What, _now_ it gets awkward? I’ve been living with awkward since he got back to 12. That horse bolted long ago. His open affection for Lace, their frequent public appearances, his sidelining of me in preference for her. He must know this if he’s worried about how their wedding will affect me. And technically I’m his _ex-fiancée_? I _was_ his fiancée, no technically about it. From someplace deep inside, something rises and expands, like yeast in bread dough. I knew this meeting would take all my self-control to get through it. But I thought I’d be battling heartbreak. Instead, I’m fighting anger.  
  
“Look,” he continues, “I understand if it would be strange or uncomfortable for you to be there. I don’t even know if it’s proper to ask you, given how I used to feel about you, even though I don’t remember it.” Not proper to ask me? Had he really thought about not inviting me? I thought we were friends. “I won’t be offended if you say no, and I only want you to be there if you feel comfortable. I had to ask you because if you do feel okay with it, I’d like you to be there. But either way, you’re still one of my best friends.”   
  
_One_ of his best friends. Thanks, Peeta. I swallow hard and force a smile. “Of course, I’ll be there, Peeta,” I say, as evenly as I can. “In fact, I can’t wait to dance at your wedding. And there’s no need to worry about me feeling uncomfortable. I’m _very_ comfortable with how things have turned out.”   
  
Peeta’s bright smile falters. I can’t see his eyes because they’re hidden behind his sunglasses.   
  


“Do you mind if I run ahead?” I ask. “I forgot that I need to be at school a bit earlier today. Staff meeting.”  
  
Before he can answer, I’m halfway down the road. When I get closer to the town, alternative routes open up, and I take one that Peeta doesn’t use. My feet slow to a walk, and I take deep breaths to calm myself.   
  
Grr! The arrogance of the man! To assume that I’m so broken up over our former engagement that I can’t bear to be present at his wedding. Well, of course, I have to be at the wedding. People will talk even more if I’m not. But after that, I want nothing more to do with him. Or her. And I’m not leaving the Village either. They can be the ones to leave if they find it too _awkward_. Both of them belong in the town, anyway.   
  
My anger helps sustain me throughout most of the day, preventing any descent into melancholy, but by the time I’ve come home and eaten my dinner, I’m feeling down again. It really is over then. I’ve lost the boy with the bread. My dandelion in the spring. The boy who said that without me, he’d never be happy again.

The phone rings, jarring me back to the present. It’s Dr Aurelius. An unusual time to call, since it’s after hours. Peeta must have called him and told him what happened today. He’s checking up on me, to make sure I’m okay. I give my side of it, convinced that Dr Aurelius will disapprove.

“What did you feel?” he asks.  
  
I dig around inside myself and find the usual emotions when I think of Peeta. Longing, sadness, hopelessness, and anger too. But there’s something else. Something new.  
  
“I felt . . . empowered,” I say, finally finding the right word. What I said to Peeta wasn’t the truth, but I’m determined that it will be. And what’s more, I said it to him. It was me declaring my independence. And it felt good. Really good.

“Maybe that’s something to think about, going forward,” he says. 

Dr Aurelius’ words stay with me over the following days. It occurs to me that perhaps this is what he’s had me working towards with Peeta. To come to a place where I can be at peace with how things are and even see it as a positive thing in my life. And, I have to admit, Peeta’s not the boy I fell in love with. Something has been lost along with his memories. A certain perceptiveness and sensitivity. Well, when it comes to me, at least.  
  
Haymitch isn’t happy with me. Peeta told him of my reaction to his upcoming nuptials. “I’m trying to get him to see that he’s doing the wrong thing, and you’re telling him you can’t wait to do the funky chicken at his wedding.”  
  
“I did not say that! I said – “  
  
Haymitch ignores me. “He’s had a relapse. He’s right back to how he was. Worse. At least then he approached everything with caution. Now he’s rushing headlong into this thing as if his life depends on it.” He looks at me accusingly. “Did you know he’s booked the ballroom at the Town Hall?” That’s where the Mayor’s party was held. Maybe he wants to sneak off with Lace during the reception for a bit of post-wedding sex. “It will cost him a fortune. And this girl seems to be encouraging him as if he’s a bottomless pit of money. He’s paying for every one of her relatives to come out too.”  
  
To be fair to Lace, the Capitol did exaggerate how wealthy victors were. But in fact, we got enough money to keep up appearances, but not so much that we could accrue large sums of it. If what Haymitch says is true, then what Peeta has planned, will wipe out most, if not all, of his savings.

I run into Lace a few days later. I’m on my way out of the Village when I hear her call my name. There’s no way to avoid her. She probably wants to gloat. I school my face into an impassive mask and wait until she catches up to me.   
  
“Katniss! I’m so glad I caught you,” she says, clutching a hand to her chest. It takes a few moments for her to catch her breath. “I’ve been wanting to thank you.”

I frown in confusion. “For what?”  
  
Lace beams at me. “For agreeing to be in the wedding. Peeta was afraid you’d find it too awkward. You know, with your past together as the star-crossed lovers.” She slips her arm through mine and I fight the temptation to throw it off. “I’m so glad he did ask you and you agreed to come. It means _so_ much to him. He holds you in such high regard.” 

_High regard?_ Is that what Peeta feels for me now? High regard is respect and admiration, but it’s not affection or friendship. I guess I should have expected it. There’s been a steady downward progression, from love object to a “one of” friend to – what is it now? – a national monument? 

I take a hard look at the woman who’s clutching my arm. She’s smiling her girlish smile, and laughing her pearly laugh. She’s very friendly all of a sudden. She’s never come across as sincere to me, and she doesn’t now. There’s more to it than relief that I’m no longer a threat. This is just too much, too soon. She’s rubbing it in. She must be. Even to repeating Peeta’s words that I’d find it too awkward. Why, they’ve both been carrying on in front of me for months and they didn’t care then. You’d almost think they were hoping it would be, they love talking about it so much.   
  
I can do two things. I can go along with it, and keep my true thoughts to myself, as I have mostly done so far. Or I can take control. Like I did with Peeta earlier in the week.

I hug her arm to my side and place my free hand over hers. “Of _course_ , I’ll be there,” I say as if the alternative is just too ridiculous to contemplate. “To be honest, it didn’t even occur to me that it might be awkward until Peeta mentioned it. I just hope it’s not awkward for _him_. Or for you.” Her smile slips a little. I lean in closer, and lower my voice, as we if are girlfriends sharing a secret. “People got very emotionally attached to the star-crossed lovers. Some might not take it well, especially if they see you as having broken us up. You know how people love to talk and throw around blame. They’ll probably hate Peeta too. But I’m sure you’ll cope. After all, it’s nothing you haven’t faced before, _Tilly_.”  
  
Lace tries to pull away but I tighten my hold to prevent her escape. “You see, you need me to be seen at your wedding having a good time. Because any hint that I’m heartbroken over it, like staying away, will make people hate you even more. And I know what happened in 8 and who you really are. But don’t worry, I’ve no intention of exposing you. It’s really no one’s business. But it is Peeta’s, and if you don’t tell him soon, I will.”  
  
She pulls harder this time and I loosen my grip. I’ve said almost everything I want to say. She stands a few feet away, her bright mahogany hair emphasizing her pallor, and two spots of anger rouging her cheeks.  
  
“One last word of advice,” I continue. “We victors aren’t as rich as the Capitol had everyone believe. So, unless you want to start married life with nothing left in the kitty, I suggest you curtail Peeta’s spending on this wedding. Bakers don’t earn much, you know. And there’s talk of stopping our pension.” There isn’t really, but the opportunity to wind up Lace even more is too good to pass up. I’ve felt powerless for so long. It feels so good to take some of it back.  
  
I give her my best fake smile. The one I perfected for the Capitol. “Well, have a nice day. I’m sure we’ll be seeing a lot more of each other. After all, we’re going to be _neighbours_!”  
  
And leaving her with that cheery thought, I turn my back and head out for the town. I want to punch the air in triumph, but it’s not long before the euphoria of victory fades. There’s no getting away from it. Lace is the real winner. She’s got Peeta.   
  
Max is already at the pub when I get there. It’s become a regular Saturday night outing. Sometimes Moira or Milo join us, but most often they don’t, so it’s just Max and me and anyone we get talking to. Lately, Arthur meets us here too. I’ve decided to take him under my wing and make sure he gets out regularly. I think Sateen would like it, and without her watchful eye, I’m more comfortable in his company now. I feel a little guilty too. Without my interference, this wedding might not be happening. I’ve ruined Arthur’s chances as well as my own. But then, maybe they never existed in the first place. Arthur seems to think so. He took the news with magnanimity as if he were expecting it.   
  
Max, with his gregarious personality, has also managed to draw Arthur out more, and we discover that there’s more to him than just business. He’s a great reader and can speak on a wide range of subjects. He likes puzzles of all kinds, especially ones that involve piecing things together. Maybe that’s why he’s so good at tailoring. But most surprising of all, we discover that he’s an avid fan of “One Life to Live.”   
  


Of course, Max has to scoff. “That rubbish? I don’t know how anyone with more than two brain cells can stand to watch it. I mean, who came up with the stupid idea of oil barons? There’s no oil drilling in 5. It’s all hydro and wind turbines. As for fraternizing between the districts, there was a great solid wall between 5 and 11. You couldn’t even smuggle a banana through it. And that they spent their free time attending balls and going to the theatre?” He gives his head an incredulous shake. “Fuck, those fools in the Capitol would believe anything.”  
  
“You seem to know a lot for someone who doesn’t watch it,” I point out.  
  
Max is taken aback for a moment, but then he shrugs. “Moira watches it. I can’t help it if I happen to be in the room at the same time.”

“I actually find it a fascinating insight into the Capitol psyche,” says Arthur, as he puts down his drink. He leans forward with the same intent expression he gets when he’s about to explain the complexities of factory management. I think we’re in for a lecture. 

“So, what do think of the characters?” I say quickly to distract him. “That Ginger’s a real bitch.”   
  
“I think Ginger’s misunderstood,” says Arthur. “She’s perceived as the villain because she appears to stand between Celia and Blake, when in actuality what’s keeping them apart are themselves. In fact, in some ways, she’s a victim.”  
  
“How do you figure that?” I ask. As far as I can see, Ginger is in for what she can get. She’s even so low as to pretend the baby she’s carrying is Blake’s.

  
“Because Blake is using her for validation and as a substitute for Celia. He’s not really in love with her, even though he might tell himself that he is. His self-image is of a man who’d be too honourable to use a woman like that. His name isn’t Knight for nothing.”  
  
“But it’s not like it’s not mutual,” I argue. “Isn’t Ginger using him too? She wants him for his status and his connections. And she’s not even faithful to him. Not that I have a high opinion of Blake, either. He tells Celia he loves her and then look at how he shows it. No wonder Celia is a mess and finds it hard to trust men. They could all turn out like Blake, for all she knows. One-minute declaring undying love, the next minute getting it on with the town floozie.”  
  
“Floozie?” laughs Max. “I didn’t think anyone still used that word. Look, Celia told him she wasn’t in love with him, so what was he to do? Be a hermit for the rest of his life? It’s really her own fault.”  
  
“It is not!” I say hotly. “She was confused. She was an innocent young girl with no experience at that sort of thing. Blake caught her unawares. And she broke it off for _him_. His parents would never have allowed it. The Knights hate the Chastleys.”  
  
“Well, how was he to know? And what’s he supposed to think with all those men hanging around? From his point of view, she’s moved on.”  
  
“But she hasn’t slept with any of them. None of them has touched her heart as he has. And he . . . he’s about to get married. He just gave up on her. He could have given it another try, at least. He didn’t stop once to consider why she did it.” I don’t know why, but I’m on the verge of tears. I take a gulp of my drink in an attempt to cover it up.  
  
Max leans back in his chair and peers at me over his glass. I don’t like the way he’s looking at me. As if knows something I don’t. “He’s not a mind reader. And she doesn’t act like she’s in love with him. Not when she’s around him, anyway.”  
  
“How can she? When he’s got a girlfriend that he flaunts in front of her at every opportunity? She’s trying to do the right thing by letting him go. And anyway, how could she ever feel the same way about him, now that he’s been with Ginger?”  
  
“She can’t,” says Arthur quietly. I’d forgotten he was here. “It changes their relationship irrevocably. If they do get back together, it must be as two different people.”

“I don’t think they can get back together. Not unless he breaks up with Ginger, at least. Celia won’t say anything while he’s with her. I know I wouldn’t,” I say.  
  
“What Celia needs is a good fuck,” says Max. I fix him with a steely look. “What? It’s obvious, isn’t it? What’s Celia done but mope around the place rejecting every man that shows an interest in her? As far as she knows it’s over with Blake. And her reasons for breaking with him are still valid. So why not get on with her life? Blake did.”

“Blake’s not happy. Not really,” I retort. “I can’t say that “getting on with it” has done him much good.”  
  
“No, but at least he’s tried another relationship, even if it is doomed to fail. Celia needs to do the same. Look, as far as she knows, Blake is happy with Ginger, right? So, she’s achieved her goal. And if by some miracle they do get back together, at least they’ll bring the same amount of experience to it. Otherwise, he’ll always be the one who broke faith and she’ll be the one who didn’t try her wings when she had the chance.”  
  
“I don’t know,’ I say doubtfully. “I think if you’re going to get involved with someone, it shouldn’t be to get over someone else. That’s what Blake’s done. Arthur, what do you think?”  
  
Arthur blinks as if he’s surprised to be asked, but he gives a considered response as he always does. “I think Celia should do whatever feels right. And she may not know what that is until the moment strikes.”  
  
“Be adaptable in other words. Be open to possibilities,” I say.   
  
Arthur nods. “Yes,” he says. “Something like that.” He gazes pensively into his glass of red wine. I wonder if this talk has reminded him of Lace, and that this is the advice he gives to himself. We’re birds of a feather, Arthur and I. Both of us hopelessly in love with someone we can’t have.   
  
“Sounds like good advice to me.” And really, what other choice do we have?  
  



	19. Chapter 19

Marcus Muir pulls a map from his pack, unfolds it, and lays it across the rock ledge. It’s a topographical map which shows elevation changes. He also has another that shows landscape features. And aerial photographs that were taken from a hovercraft as well. Not to mention some kind of handheld device that reminds me of a Holo. Only this doesn’t show pods but your location anywhere in Panem. Marcus uses it in conjunction with his maps.   
  
“Why do you need me when you have all this stuff?” I ask. I take a water bottle from the side pocket of my pack and take a big gulp. The weather is still chilly, but the climb to the top of the ridge has me sweating under my clothes.   
  
Marcus turns his extraordinary eyes to mine. They are a light brown, the colour of maple syrup, and almost the same golden-brown of his hair. Paired with even features, a lithe athletic build, he’s not too bad on the eyes.   
  
“There’s no substitute for local knowledge,” he says as he refolds the map and tucks it back into his pack. “Take this place.” He sweeps his hand over the lush valley below. It’s a magnificent view and a familiar one. It’s where Gale and I used to meet. “A map only tells you that there’s a high elevation point and then a sharp drop in altitude. It takes someone who’s actually been here to know that it’s worth the climb to see it.”  
  
“Humph” I grunt in reply. “And why should it be so important that there’s a view worth seeing?”  
  
“For a look-out,” he says, his gaze now trained on the horizon. “This is perfect. We’ll have to put up a barrier, of course, for safety’s sake. We don’t want people too close to the edge and falling off.” He maps out a large square with his hands. “We could put a platform right here. And once that thicket of bushes is removed, there’ll be nothing to impede the view.”  
  
He’s right. The bushes are in the way. And the loss of them won’t take anything away from the natural beauty of the place. But they’re not just any bushes. Gale and I would nestle into a nook in the rocks between these bushes and the ledge, and talk, and eat, and plan our hunting strategy for the day. This is the place where we met on that last morning before the reaping to share a meal of bakery bread and a goat cheese, made by Prim. A few meters away is the large flat rock where Cressida filmed us. And it’s where I came to sit, that first time I roused myself to venture back into the woods after my confinement to 12. I let the last of Gale go that day, that day Peeta returned. It was a turning point, I now realize. To be finally free of the ties that had bound me to Gale. But it was for no purpose in the end. Peeta no longer cared. 

“Imagine it, Katniss,” Marcus enthuses. “People using the forest as it should be. Out exercising and enjoying nature and learning about the natural world. That’s the way we conserve it. Not by putting fences around it and shutting everyone out. Or the way it is now with people doing whatever they like.”   
  
I say nothing but he doesn’t seem to expect a response. I think he’s used to my sullen silences by now. He hoists his pack onto his shoulders and that’s the signal for me to do the same. He likes to keep moving. It’s been a challenge for me to keep up, and I don’t consider myself a slouch when it comes to traversing through the woods.  
  
Ambivalent is too mild a word for how I feel about Marcus’s purpose here. He wants to establish national parks to conserve our natural heritage for prosperity, he says. He got the idea from an ancient book he discovered in the basement of the Capitol library where he worked. He had access to all the old books stored down there, many of them forbidden to the public. They had national parks before the dark days, it seems, and they were very successful. Most of the wilderness areas we have now were once national parks. The irony is that great care was taken to conserve these areas but the rest of the planet was left to go to pot. The changes in climatic conditions – rising sea levels, or something – led to civil strife, and then wars and then finally the Panem we know today.  
  
It’s not that I don’t see the value in it. I know what’s happened to the woods since the fences came down and people are free to enter as they please. Before the rebellion, you would have been whipped in the town square, or even hanged, if you were caught trespassing. Only a few of us were daring enough, or desperate enough, to risk it. But because there were so few of us, what was taken from nature was very little and it quickly recovered. When I escorted Marcus into the woods for the first time, I saw through his eyes just how much damage has been done. People have lost the fear that once kept them out of the woods from either predators or the law. And they are no longer afraid of being put to death if they are caught in possession of a weapon. Forget bows and snares, firearms are used now and some species are less abundant as they used to be through overhunting. Trees, some of them centuries old, are indiscriminatory chopped down for building material or firewood. And human footprints crisscross the terrain causing erosion and destruction to the undergrowth. I saw rubbish left behind by picnickers, and the remains of a campfire that was surely too big for safety. 

Yet, on the other hand, I don’t want a look-out built on my old meeting place either. Gale and I were the only ones who knew it was here, so well hidden it is, and now everyone will know about it. It dawns on me that there was a least one good thing about the pre-war days and that was having the woods virtually all to myself.   
  
We continue our walk along the ridge. Marcus makes a few notes as he goes, stopping occasionally to peer across the valley. I think he’s searching for more look-out sites. Eventually, we descend into a saddle with another steep climb just ahead of us. It’s sheltered from the wind here and sunlight filters through the tall straight pines. A fallen tree lies invitingly a few meters away. I glance hopefully over at Marcus. My stomach is rumbling and I want to eat. Luckily, he seems to have the same idea because he props his pack against the log and pulls out a crumpled paper bag.   
  
“Ready for lunch?” he asks.  
  
I don’t have to be asked twice. I take a seat beside him on the log and get my food out too –ham sandwiches, a banana and a couple of cheese buns. The buns are from Peeta. For some reason, he’s started baking them for me instead of cookies, even though I can get cheese buns from the bakery. I think, maybe, that he has a memory of baking them for me and he’s acting it out to see where it leads. Rather like with the snickerdoodles when he couldn’t remember the key ingredient. Going through the motions helped him to remember. I think now that is what was behind all the touching he used to do. It came out of all the hugging and affectionate gestures we were forced to do in public as the star-crossed lovers. His body remembered it even if he didn’t. And now his body remembers baking cheese buns for me. Cheese buns equal Katniss sort of thing. Much as I would like to, I don’t set any store by it. The action means little without the feelings behind it.   
  
“I know how you feel,” says Marcus.  
  
“Hmm?” I mumble through a mouthful of sandwich.   
  
“About your woods being turned into a national park. When you’ve had it to yourself for so long, it becomes like your home. You certainly don’t want strangers walking through it. And then there’s the peace and solitude. It’s just not the same when you have to share it. “  
  
I regard him skeptically. How could anyone from the Capitol know how I feel? All the Capitolites I knew were as divorced from nature as you could possibly get. Artifice is what they valued. Expensive cloying perfumes. Thumping synthetic music that would as soon give you a headache. What colour wig to wear that day.   
  
“I grew up not far from the mountains east of The Capitol,” Marcus continues. “The Rocky Mountains they were called in the old days. Very different from here – the mountains are much taller, more rugged. And there are far fewer trees, but in its way just as beautiful. My father and I would go hiking most weekends. Sometimes we’d camp out overnight. He knew someone whose job it was to manage the border fence. He’d turn the electricity off so we could slip under it. In return for a monetary contribution, of course.”  
  
“Wait! Why would you have to get past an electrified fence? I thought they only had them in the districts.” I say, in surprise.  
  
“No, we had them too. Only it wasn’t to keep us out. It was to stop people from neighboring districts from getting in. You know, terrorists and other malcontents. That’s what we were told anyway. My grandmother lived in fear that she’d be murdered in her bed by marauding savages if the fence failed. It’s a common phenomenon, I’ve noticed, that we assume that others will act exactly like ourselves if given the opportunity. We oppress others in the mistaken belief that if we don’t, the oppressed will just turn around and do the same to us.”  
  
“But we didn’t,” I point out. Marcus is free to travel the country as he pleases and to promote a scheme that was forbidden under Capitol rule. My former prep team prospers in a foreign district. They couldn’t have done that under Snow. But, underneath, a disquieting thought niggles at me. The victor’s meeting with Coin and the proposal to choose between another Games with Capitol children or the extermination of all Capitol citizens. It was all made up by Coin, wasn’t it? I assume it had to have been since neither of those things happened. But still, at least one person had the idea. It’s possible she wasn’t the only one.  
  
“No, you didn’t,” confirms Marcus, gazing straight ahead.  
  
We sit in silence for a little while. I glance over at him as he quietly eats his lunch. Suddenly I have an urge to reach out to him, to know him better. I sense that, in a way, he’s like me. A kindred spirit of sorts.  
  
“My father took me into the woods too. Not to hike or camp. But to teach me how to hunt and forage. I was named from the katniss plant that grows around here. Katniss roots are edible – a bit like a potato. My father once told me that “as long as you find yourself, you’ll never starve.””  
  
“And it’s in the woods that you find yourself?” he asks, with an understanding smile.  
  
“Yes,” I say, after considering his question for a moment. I’d never thought of it that way. That my father’s words could allude to more than just my physical survival. “For almost as long as I can remember, actually. A friend once told me that I never smile except in the woods.” I can’t help my lips turning upwards at the memory. It was Gale who said it to me. He certainly had to wait a long time for one. It seems funny now, how intense and focused I used to be.  
  
Marcus laughs. “I bet that’s not true.”

He starts to pack away the remains of his lunch. “You do get a sense of ownership about it. That it won’t be just yours anymore. Not once we start making it more accessible by laying down walking tracks and putting up signs. But you know it’s happening already – this incursion by the public. And they have a right to enjoy the forest too. At least this way, it can be regulated. If it’s left unchecked and without rules . . . well, you’ve seen what will happen.”  
  
I nod. “Yeah, it’s not that I don’t see the necessity. It’s just . . . well, it won’t be the same, will it?”  
  
“No, it won’t,” he concedes. “But change is inevitable. It’s better to adapt than to fret about something that won’t come back.”  
  
I think about this as we make the long hike back to 12. About fretting over something that won’t come back. As usual, Peeta isn’t too far from my thoughts. I fretted over Peeta for the longest time until I decided to accept the inevitable and adapt to the new situation. I can’t say that I’ve been very successful. As much as I might tell myself that it’s time to move on, there remains a corner of my heart where hope refuses to budge. The wedding looms ever closer and there’s no sign that either Peeta or Lace will change their mind. In fact, they seem more affectionate than ever. She’s back to licking ice-cream off his face. I had the misfortune to catch her at it as I passed by the ice-cream parlor a few days ago. It’s positively sickening. Johanna agrees with me. Overkill, she called it. But apparently not as cringe-inducing as the way Peeta and I used to act.   
  
I did take umbrage at this. But I managed to hold my tongue. Johanna has become something of an ally of mine in the Lace affair and I don’t want to ruin it. I need all the allies I can get.   
  
Johanna arrived in 12 a few days after Marcus. It was a toss-up between mine or Peeta’s house where she stayed – Haymitch’s house was never seriously considered. I wasn’t at home when she turned up unexpectedly at the Victor’s Village, suitcase in hand. But Peeta was. So, she’s staying at his house. In the guest room.   
  
I almost choked on my cheese bun when I heard. What happened to being a good boyfriend? Why is she allowed to spend full nights in his house when I can’t even sleep there for just a few hours when the nightmares get too much? 

I was sure my hurt and indignation must have shown but Johanna didn’t appear to notice anything untoward. Maybe it’s because she was too busy licking the grease from the buns off her fingers, or she just thinks it’s my habitual expression.   
  
Between sips of tea, she filled me in on her adventures as an environmental activist. That’s a job title Johanna’s given herself. I knew something about it already. I had recently seen her on TV chained naked to a tree as part of a protest. Johanna got involved when Marcus came to her district to call for the cessation of unauthorized logging in the forested areas of 7 and to declare it protected as a national park. And Johanna, aimless and looking for something to do, seized upon it as a cause worthy of her time and effort. She became one of Marcus’s most enthusiastic supporters, organizing protest rallies and demonstrations. 

I could see why this combination of resisting authority and civil disobedience would appeal to Johanna. And it made her quite the celebrity in 7 in a way that’s totally unconnected to the Games. Most people in 7 were hostile towards the logging companies who exploited their workers by paying them poorly and making them work long hours in unsafe conditions. No one wanted to see the industry taken to task and regulated more than they.   
  
“Is that what brings you to 12?” I asked. “If you’re here to do the same, I think you’ll find there’s little for you to do. There’re no big companies to fight, and most people here approve of a national park. After all, there’s no advantage in taking what you want from the woods, if everyone is doing it. Soon there’s nothing left. And Marcus has the approval and assistance of the local council too. That’s how I came to be working with him.”  
  
Johanna simply shrugged. “That’s okay. I sort of knew that but I’d thought I’d come anyway just in case Marcus did need my help. And since my work is done in 7, I figured I might as well travel a bit and catch up with old friends.”  
  
She’s bored, I thought. And lonely. But then something else occurred to me.  
  
“Are you interested in Marcus?”  
  
“What?” she exclaimed, in genuine surprise. “No! Of course not. I mean he’s attractive enough, but he’s not my type at all. Far too earnest. And he has a one-track mind. It’s all about saving the forests with him. Didn’t even blink when I stripped off in front of him.”  
  
“Oh,” I said, momentarily without words. Johanna is used to getting a reaction. It must have come as quite a shock. “Maybe the sun was in his eyes.”  
  
“Yeah, maybe. Come to think of it, it was.” Johanna reached for another cheese bun. “So, there’s to be a wedding soon, I hear. I just caught Peeta as he was about to dash out the door. He was in a hurry to get into town so there wasn’t time to chat, but he mentioned something about having to discuss the catering for the wedding reception.”  
  
“Yes,” I said, trying to put off for as long as possible what I was sure was coming next. “Peeta’s very particular when it comes to food.” The wedding isn’t for a few months yet, but the happy couple certainly isn’t leaving anything to the last minute.   
  
Johanna turned to me with a quizzical look. “Funny. I’d never have picked you for the big wedding type. Peeta, maybe.”  
  
“Um, it’s not me Peeta’s marrying. It’s someone else.” I turned my attention to pouring myself another cup of tea. Anything to hide from Johanna’s startled reaction.   
  
Of course, then I had to explain everything. And there was no sense in spinning some story about how I don’t care or that I’m happy that Peeta is marrying another. Johanna has the best bullshit detector of anyone I know. And she was with us in the Quell, saw how Peeta’s hijacking affected me. She knows I was far from indifferent about him.   
  
“Wow,” said Johanna, after I finished. “The evil-mutt version of himself must still be in there. Except it wants to destroy your soul instead of your body.”  
  
“I don’t think it’s quite like that,” I said. “But something is holding him back. Maybe they put some delayed programming into his head. Something that erased the memories he gained and made him fearful of getting them back. I don’t know. Dr Aurelius doesn’t tell me anything.”  
  
“Are you still in love him?” asked Johanna, peering at me intently.  
  


“Yes,” I said eventually. “But something’s been lost.”  
  
“Innocence,” said Johanna, nodding sagely. “And trust. Well, if you want him back, I’ll help you. I know if I were in Peeta’s shoes, and I was about to rush into marriage with a cracked brain, I’d want someone to stop me. You in?”  
  
I hesitated. It’s not that I don’t want Peeta, it’s that I’m certain that Peeta doesn’t want me. And cracked brain or not, he’s happy and I don’t want to ruin that. Anyway, my attempts at interference had just made him more confused than ever.   
  
“In,” I said cautiously. “But there’s conditions. He’s not to know how I feel about him unless he specifically asks. We have to give Peeta credit for knowing his own heart, at least. He wouldn’t be marrying Lace if he didn’t love her. This has to be about helping Peeta find the person he was before the hijacking so he can make the best decisions for his future. But if we see signs that we’re doing more harm than good, we back off. Agreed?”  
  
“Agreed!” cried Johanna with almost unseemly gusto. Well, at least someone’s happy. Johanna has herself a new project. And then she laid out her ideas for what we should do. Some of them aren’t too crazy.   
  


Marcus and I eventually make it to the edge of the woods, where the electrified fence once stood. It’s now a tangle of twisted wire, flattened into the ground by numerous feet. No one is afraid of predators anymore. Most of them have retreated deeper into the forest as more humans invaded their territory and decimated their numbers with high powered weapons. Marcus has plans to erect information boards here and transform the meadow into a picnic area. I had to remind him that the meadow is also a burial ground and he has promised to respect that. Maybe a memorial of some kind.   
  
We haven’t spoken much since we stopped for lunch and I’ve decided that’s one of the things I like about him. He enjoys nature as I do, keenly attune to the sights and sounds around him. The only talk that’s welcome comes from the birds, or from the wind rustling through the trees.   
  
We’ll part ways soon. I’ll go home to my house in the Village, only a short distance away. But he has a far longer trek to his hotel on the other side of town. It’s not the most convenient location, even mid-week, as he likes to consult with me about future reconnoiters.   
  
“You know, I have plenty of room at my house,” I say. “Why don’t you stay with me for the duration instead of the hotel? It would be more convenient for us both – closer to the woods for you, and we could plan our walks without having to meet somewhere.”  
  
It takes a split second for Marcus to make up his mind. A couple of hours later, he had retrieved his gear from the hotel and he’s now comfortably installed in my house. In the guest room. 


	20. Chapter 20

  
“” Exploring the Appalachian Trail”, “How to Hike the Appalachian Trail,” “Appalachian Trail Guide”, “Lost on the Appalachian Trail.”” Johanna looks up from the pile of books she’s rifling through. “Why would he want that one? Isn’t the idea not to get lost?” she asks, shaking her head. “Oh wait, this one really takes the cake. “How to Shit in the Woods.” Why would you need a book for that? I can condense it into two words. Squat, shit. It’s not that hard.”  
  
“I’d hope you’d take your pants down first,” I say dryly. “Maybe you do need a book. I’d hate to be downwind. Seriously though, it’s about protecting the waterways from contamination. It used to be a problem in the old days.”   
  
Johanna makes a face at me and tosses the book back with the others.   
  
“Careful,” I caution. “These books are really old. Marcus wouldn’t like it if they got damaged.” I remove the books from Johanna’s reach and place them back on the side table. Marcus has loaned them to me to read. They are from the Capitol library and are irreplaceable.   
  
Johanna shrugs and turns her attention to picking at her cuticles. She’s a nail biter like me. 

Johanna is easily bored. Restless, always looking for something to do. I think it’s a coping mechanism of hers. An active mind keeps it from dwelling on other things.   
  
“Dinner should be ready soon,” I say. “You came over at the right time. Marcus is a really good cook.” I can hear him moving about in the kitchen. He’s taken over the cooking since he moved in. I think he likes to be in control over what’s served up. He’s a vegetarian, which means he doesn’t eat meat. It’s the oddest thing I’ve ever heard of, but so far, I haven’t missed meat with my evening meals. And since he’s doing the cooking, I can’t complain. Besides, a takeaway restaurant has just opened not far from the school. It makes the juiciest, meatiest hamburgers you can imagine. I have one for lunch most days.   
  
“Vegetarian, I suppose,” says Johanna without enthusiasm. “What is it tonight? Curried tofu?”  
  
“Actually, I think it is,” I say. The aroma emanating from the kitchen suggests that it could be. “You should have stayed with Peeta if you don’t like vegetarian. He’s at home, isn’t he? I saw Lace come through the village gates about an hour ago. Don’t tell me they kicked you out?”  
  
“No,” replies Johanna with an annoyed expression. “It was my idea. I just couldn’t stand it. The two of them are so boring together. All they talk about is the wedding. When I left them, they were in a serious discussion about what colour the napkins should be for the reception. Who cares about fucking napkins?”   
  
“Obviously, they do,” I reply. “Peeta’s always been a romantic. He’d want everything to be perfect for his big day.”  
  
“Yeah, but it’s still only one day. What happens on the day after that? And then the day after that? I don’t think those fools have thought beyond the wedding. Did you know that Haymitch and Peeta got into an argument about his and Lace’s plans for the future? Would you believe they don’t have any?”  
  
“Don’t they? Well, they must have thought about it since, because Peeta told me of them the other day. He wants to open his own bakery, have five kids, and Lace will work from home so she can take care of them.”   
  
Johanna snorts dismissively. “And how do you think that will work out?”  
  
I shrug helplessly. It perfectly sums up how I feel about all things related to Peeta lately. “It probably won’t. Peeta loves his job at Carter's. It wouldn’t surprise me if they make him a partner at some point. If he opens his own bakery, he’d just be taking on a responsibility he doesn’t want. It would put him in competition with the Carters too. As for Lace, it’s a big comedown if she swaps her shop to working at home. She moved to a foreign district, and even lied about her origins, to own her own shop. And how do you get any work done with five kids, anyway?” I imagine five little Peetas, all ashy blond hair and bright blue eyes, running around the Village, playing and laughing. It’s awful how much that hurts – the thought of Peeta and Lace having children together. I don’t know if I want children, but if I did, I’d want them with Peeta.   
  
“It sounds like it was pulled out of their arse,” says Johanna contemptuously. Suddenly she sits up straight. “Wait, what did you mean about Lace lying about her origins?”   
  
“Oh, nothing really serious. Lace would have told Peeta about it by now. Her family was falsely suspected of colluding with the Capitol, and something Lace did led to it. She changed her name and lied about her social status when she came here, so rumors wouldn’t follow her, I guess. Said she was a factory worker when she’s really from the owner class. I found out about it when I was in 8 recently. Only Haymitch and I know. And Arthur, who’s an old friend of hers.”  
  
“The same Arthur I met in the pub?” Johanna asks.   
  
“Yes, that’s him. He’s been in love with Lace since they were children. Poor man, I think it might be even worse for him than it is for me. He’s had to watch Lace in love with two men now. And Lace doesn’t seem to have a clue how he feels about her.” I pause here because on reflection I’m not so sure that she’s doesn’t. It’s just that she’s got used to it. Takes it for granted. It occurs to me that Lace and I might have more in common than I thought. 

“She’s possessive about him though,” I continue. “I don’t think she likes the idea of him being with another. Too used to his attention focused on her, I guess.”   
  


Johanna settles back into her chair, her brow creased in thought. “Interesting,” she says.   
  
“What’s interesting?” I ask suspiciously. Johanna has her scheming face on.   
  
“Oh, nothing in particular. I was just thinking about Arthur. Still waters run deep sort of thing.”   
  
“Right,” I say, unconvinced.

Johanna goes back to examining her cuticles. “I’ve been watching the tapes Aurelius sends. Haymitch thought I’d add another perspective and Peeta agreed. There’s more of the Quell stuff now.” A grin spreads across her face. “He sent the part where I slapped you across the face.” Evidently the thought of it gives her pleasure. “Then there was a lot of explaining about which of us knew about the plot to get you and Peeta out, and what went wrong. Peeta got mad at Haymitch all over again. But we figure it’s a positive thing. Emotions will come with the memories and they all have to be worked through.”   
  
“Yeah, I guess,” I say. A shame it’s not always the emotions you want. Not when it comes to me, anyway. “Was there anything else?”   
  
“Just that TV special with you modelling wedding gowns for the public to vote on.”  
  
My mind travels back to that day. The day of the photoshoot. I had to model six gowns, each with their own headpiece, jewellery, makeup and hairstyle. It was tedious and exhausting work, made even more so because I didn’t want to be a bride. “What did Peeta say?”   
  
“Not much,” says Johanna. “He just said he remembered how much you hated it, that’s all. He didn’t have any questions.”  
  
I say nothing. What is there to say? He’s right. I hated it. I can just imagine what he must have been thinking as he watched it. My unwillingness compared to Lace’s happiness and excitement. She would have loved doing the photoshoot. Trying on all those Cinna designed gowns. And then the prospect of marrying Peeta. 

For a while now, I’ve been questioning Dr Aurelius’ choice when it comes to the tapes. In almost everything he sends; I seem to be either hostile or indifferent towards Peeta. Or I’m acting, or it’s ambiguous, like the date on the roof. There’s been not one tape that shows genuine romantic love between us. I don’t take it personally. I know this isn’t about me, and Peeta is the patient. But there must a reason why he’s sent the tapes he has. Surely, with the wedding not far off, Dr Aurelius could see the urgency of speeding the process up. As far as I can see, there could be only one reason for his choices, and why he’s avoided anything that could really challenge Peeta’s misconceptions. And it’s because Peeta couldn’t handle it. Deep down, he doesn’t want to know. That’s why he interprets the way he does – always on the side of my not having any romantic feelings about him. Perhaps the knowledge would cause a serious mental breakdown. So serious, that they’ll have to strap him to a gurney again with hypodermic syringes at the ready when I’m in his presence. I have to remember what the hijacking made him believe. That I was a mutt, a malevolent being that harmed everything it touched. That he considers me a friend is an enormous improvement on that.

Maybe I’ve been stupidly unrealistic to hope that Peeta could ever feel the same way about me. That’s why Dr Aurelius has been encouraging me to make a life for myself outside of Peeta and to make new relationships. Patient confidentiality prevents him from telling me what’s really going on in Peeta’s mind, but he’s been giving me clues nonetheless. I’ve just failed to see them. It’s been in the tapes he sends – tapes he knew that I watched too and could see how Peeta reacted to them. Perhaps he’s been telling me that I need to accept that Peeta is lost to me forever and I should make a new life. The more I think of it, the more I’m convinced. The best anyone can hope for is that he regains enough memories to enable him to enter into this marriage with a clearer sense of who he is.   
  
My train of thought is interrupted when Marcus enters the room carrying a large tureen. He places it at the center of the dining table, alongside a bowl of salad greens and a basket of soft rolls. It smells delicious and, despite Johanna’s disdain for vegetarian food, she’s first to be seated at the table. Chunks of tofu bathed in a sauce of aromatic spices and coconut milk on a bed of wild rice. I serve myself a generous portion but I’m too heartsick to really enjoy it. Neither Marcus nor Johanna seem to pick up on it. They’re in a lively debate about the merit of using stunts to attract publicity for the cause, such as stripping naked and chaining oneself to a tree.   
  
“Aha!” shouts Johanna in triumph, “So, you did notice.”  
  
Marcus shrugs and gives her an amused smile. “Hard not to,” he says.   
  
For dessert, there are dried plums stewed in sweet wine and cinnamon and topped with heavy cream.   
  
“Prunes,” says Johanna.   
  
“What?” I ask.  
  
“Dried plums used to be called prunes. They changed the name for marketing purposes – because of the association with old people. It was to help them shit.”  
  
“They should have had a book,” I say, unable to keep my lips from twitching.  
  
“Yeah,” laughs Johanna.   
  
Marcus looks from me to Johanna and then back again, his eyes questioning.   
  
“Never mind, “says Johanna. “Inside joke.” She turns back to me. “So, are we going to the pub tonight?”  
  
“Um, I hadn’t really thought about it,” I reply evasively. I’m lying. I had thought about it and then decided against it even though it’s a Saturday night and it’s what we usually do. It’s just that Johanna and Max had an altercation last time and I don’t want any more trouble. It was over Max referring to Peeta as “psycho boy”. I reminded Johanna that she’s called Peeta the evil mutt version of himself and that she’s no better. But according to Johanna, it’s different because she’s family.   
  
“Don’t worry, I’ll behave,” says Johanna, in a tone she probably thinks is reassuring but really isn’t. “I promise. No more public scenes. So, are we going?”   
  
Marcus and I exchange glances. He gives his head a slight nod and I turn back to Johanna. “All right.” I still have misgivings but it doesn’t do me good to stay home and mope.   
  
“Good. I’ll just race over to Peeta’s to grab my coat while you two clean up. I’ll meet you at the gates in twenty minutes.”   
  
Marcus collects the plates and cutlery while I reach for the tureen. “I’ll take care of the dishes,” he says. “Why don’t you get yourself ready? This won’t take long.”   
  
“Okay,” I say, “But I’m doing all the dishes tomorrow.” Marcus is so nice. The easiest, most unobtrusive house guest you can imagine. Helps out with the housework, knows when to talk, and when not to. Even Buttercup likes him, and he’s not a cat that takes kindly to strangers.   
  
I trek upstairs to change my clothes for something more suitable than the fleecy pants and baggy sweater I’m wearing. I settle for dark blue pants in a stretchy velvet-like fabric and a deep-red long-sleeved shirt. A light make-up and a brush of my hair and I’m done.   
  
Marcus is already at the door, jacket on, the hall light picking out the golden notes in his hair and beard. “You look great,” he tells me, with a warm smile. “You should wear red more often. It suits you.”   
  
Suddenly I’m transported back to another time, another place. Marcus disappears, and there stands sixteen-year-old Peeta, in the black unitard and cape of fluttering steamers we wore for the tributes parade. “You should wear flames more often,” he had said. “They suit you,” And then he gave me a smile so genuinely sweet and with just the right touch of shyness. The memory must cause something to change in my face, something fond and nostalgic because when Marcus reappears, there’s a different light in his eyes and I find myself blushing. Why I don’t know.   
  
“Thanks,” I mumble, turning away to reach for my coat from the hall stand. We walk the short distance to the Village gates where Johanna should be waiting for us. She is. But she’s not alone. Peeta and Lace are there too.

“I asked them if they’d like to join us,” she explains. “They were going into town anyway, so I thought we could all go in together and have a drink.”  
  
“I hope it’s alright,” says Peeta. His eyes travel between Marcus and me.  
  
“Of course,” I say with false brightness. The last thing I want is an evening in Peeta and Lace’s company and having to watch them with their hands all over each other. “It will be fun.”  
  
Walking five abreast proves awkward, and we separate into two groups with Marcus and me walking ahead. To get more distance between us, I quicken my pace slightly until we’re just out of conversation range. I don’t want to listen to the happy couple cooing at each other. But rather than giving them their space, Johanna has chosen to hang back to walk with them rather than out in front with Marcus and me. I turn my head to see what she’s up to, and she’s at Peeta’s side, chatting away. She has one hand to the side of her mouth as if she’s telling secrets. Their eyes are on me, and I know I’m being talked about.   
  
Since there’s little I can do without causing a fuss, I turn my attention back to the road and to what Marcus is saying.   
  
“. . . a lake about half a day’s walk from here. I think it’s worth exploring in detail. What do you say to a two or three-day camp? We’d be back in time for your teaching job.”   
  
A lake. That must be my lake. The lake where my father taught me to swim. A place I never wanted to share, even with Gale. A place that belonged only to my father and me. It’s not unexpected. Marcus was bound to get to it sooner or later. But hearing about it now, with the physical reminder of an even greater loss close by, it’s almost too much to take.   
  
“Sure, “I tell him, with a wan smile. “There’s a concrete hut with a fireplace. We can shelter in that.”  
  
I bite my lip to keep the tears at bay. Feeling sorry for myself won’t help. But I want so much to turn heel and go home. But I can’t. Not without some plausible excuse and I can’t think of one so I keep walking, one foot after the other, and take comfort that in a few hours my steps will be taking me in the opposite direction towards home, and this horrible night will soon be over.   
  


I’m surprised when Marcus takes me by the hand. I recognize that he’s reaching out in sympathy, even though he doesn’t know the half of it. His hand is warm and comforting. It’s been so long since anyone touched me like this, with any real consciousness behind it, and I clasp hold of his hand in the same way I clung to Peeta on those nights on the train. As a bulwark against dangers that could descend at any moment. 

When we arrive at our destination, Marcus and I wait at the door for the others to catch up. Lace is in a buoyant mood, but Peeta’s smile seems forced. As Johanna passes by, she pulls me aside. “That was brilliant,” she whispers. “Keep it up.”  
  
“Keep what up?” But Johanna is already through the door and doesn’t hear me.   
  
It’s noisy inside and crowded, but we manage to find a table that will seat all of us. I spy Max and Arthur at the bar, and I raise an arm to attract their attention. Max nudges Arthur to follow him but hesitates when he sees Johanna. Johanna responds with a devilish grin but then dips her head towards Peeta. No one is fighting over Peeta tonight. Not while Peeta’s here. And that’s at least one thing I don’t have to worry about. 


	21. Chapter 21

  
Johanna makes sure that Marcus is well out of earshot before she speaks.

In a low voice she asks, “Do you think I’m still invited to the wedding?”

I glance sharply at her, unsure if she’s trying to be funny or not. But no, she’s serious. As if the worst outcome from this fiasco would be a rescinded wedding invitation. 

“Not if Lace has anything to do with it,” I answer. I doubt Johanna was ever on the invitation list, anyway. Peeta only mentioned Delly when he talked about the people from his side he could ask to the wedding. Not Johanna, or Annie, or my mother. I suppose Delly is the only one he has complete memories of. It’s a wonder that Haymitch and I made the list. “I’m probably not either,” I add. “Peeta’s pretty mad.”

Johanna sits in the same chair in my living room that she occupied earlier this evening. Marcus is in the kitchen making hot chocolate.   
  
I drop my head into my hands and groan. What a horrible, horrible night. To think I’ve been waiting months for some kind of breakthrough with Peeta and tonight I got my wish. Only it wasn’t the one I’d been hoping for – the one where Peeta discovers that it was me he loved all along. Instead, I’m back to being mistrusted. Maybe even hated.  
  
I go over in my head how this all came about, to try to make sense of it. The evening started well enough. Johanna and Max appeared to have put an end to hostilities, although I did note that Max made sure to sit at the opposite end of the table, well out of striking range. But Max had no cause to worry. To his chagrin, Johanna ignored him. All her attention was on Arthur.   
  
And Arthur really seemed to like it. I don’t think anyone had paid him so much attention in his life. Johanna leaned towards him, intent on every word he uttered as if it were the most fascinating thing she’d ever heard. She complimented him on his appearance, his knowledge of wine (Arthur appeared baffled at this - I think all he cares about wine is that it’s red, but he took the compliment anyway), his ambition, and, most importantly for Arthur, his business acumen. She even listened, mesmerized, as he described in excruciating detail, of his plans to open a clothing factory.   
  
It was puzzling to say the least. Johanna had paid only cursory attention to Arthur the last time they met. Johanna likes her men a little on the wild side and Arthur definitely isn’t that. But when I saw Lace’s reaction, Johanna’s motives became clear. She was trying to make Lace jealous. And it was working.   
  
Lace became quieter, less effusive, and obviously distracted. There was a moment when Peeta seemed to sense something was wrong. I saw him lean in and whisper something in her ear, presumably something to cheer her up. Lace laughed her pearly laugh and kissed his cheek. And then she went straight back to watching Arthur and Johanna.

I tried to see it from Lace’s point of view. I already knew she was possessive over him. I consider myself an expert on this. It’s like when Madge braved a snowstorm to bring morphling to ease Gale’s pain after the whipping. Haymitch insinuated that there was something between Gale and Madge and I didn’t like it. And when I reversed Gale’s and my situation in my head, and it was Gale who became another girl’s lover, and then returned home with her, living close by, and getting engaged to her. I was overwhelmed with hatred for them both. He is mine; I am his, I remember thinking. And in that moment, I genuinely believed it. But then, not long after, waking panicked from a nightmare, I wished that Peeta were there to hold me. So, I didn’t set much store by it, what Lace was feeling right then. When you’re at the crossroad, and there’s a path that hasn’t been explored, but will close forever if you don’t take it, it’s hard to let it go. Even when, deep down, you know that the direction your feet are pointed in, is the right one. 

Peeta seemed a little distracted too. It’s as if he had to remind himself that, as a good fiancé, he should be extra attentive. So, even as he held her hand, bringing it to his lips occasionally, and making sure she was never without a drink, there was an absent quality to it. If he had been paying attention, he should have slowed down Lace’s drinking. Lace guzzled one cocktail after another. It was like she was going down the list.   
  
All that liquid had to go somewhere and it wasn’t long before Lace had to go to the bathroom.   
  
“I’ll come with you,” announced Johanna, rising quickly from her seat. “Katniss, come join us?”   
  


“What?” I spluttered in surprise. I had been deep in discussion with Marcus over what provisions we’d need for the camp. I was about to say no thanks but then saw Johanna making small jerking movements of her head which I recognized as some kind of signal. “Ah, okay. I suppose it couldn’t hurt.”  
  
Lace immediately sequestered herself in one on the stalls. She really needed to go. Johanna and I were finished first. While I washed my hands, Johanna stood at the mirror, fluffing her hair.  
  
Over the sound of a flushing toilet, Johanna whispered, “Whatever happens, just go along with it. Okay?”  
  
“Okay,” I whispered back. “But what do you – “   
  
“Arthur is by far the most fascinating man I’ve ever met,” gushed Johanna. Lace had just emerged. “And I’ve met a lot of men.”  
  
“Yes,” I say, taking Johanna’s lead. “He’s a man going places, that’s for sure. And he’s very attractive too. And so nice. Most men would be full of themselves if they had half of what Arthur has going for him. But he’s not like that at all.” It was exaggerated but mostly true.  
  
“It’s hard to believe that some lucky woman hasn’t claimed him by now,” said Johanna, as she applied lipstick in a cupid’s bow to accentuate her sexy pout. “When I was at the salon the other day, Flavius told me that his female clients confessed to having the biggest crush on him. Even Octavia. He said she’s always finding excuses to go into his shop. The salon and the tailor shop are right next door to each other, you know.”   
  


“Well, she’s wasting her time,” said Lace, in an acerbic voice. “Arthur would never go for someone like that. He likes natural beauty. He told me so. Green skin, dyed hair. It’s not the way to attract Arthur at all.” She looked pointedly at Johanna’s red-tipped spiky dark hair. Johanna stared back at Lace’s. Lace flushed uncomfortably. It’s an open secret that Lace’s hair colour isn’t natural.   
  
“Octavia isn’t green anymore,” I said. “She’s let the skin dye fade out. Underneath was a beautiful peaches and cream complexion. And her hair is back to its natural colour – a nice auburn. There’s nothing artificial about Octavia’s appearance now.” Unless you count false eyelashes, fingernails and hair extensions.  
  


Johanna gave herself a final appraisal in the mirror and then undid all the buttons of her shirt right down to where it tucked into her trousers to expose a large expanse of bare flesh down the middle of her chest. She wasn’t wearing a bra.

“Octavia is sweet enough. But what Arthur needs is a woman. Not some giggly little girl. Someone who knows how to please a man and make him feel special. Because if there was ever a man who deserved to be shown a good time, it’s Arthur. And maybe I’m the one to give it to him,” said Johanna, with a suggestive wink, as she walked out the door.  
  
I turned to Lace with a shrug, as if to say, “what else can you expect from Johanna?” But Lace barely looked at me and swept past without a word. I felt a little ashamed. Maybe I shouldn’t have participated in Johanna’s attempt to manipulate her. I wouldn’t like to have my feelings played with like that. Besides, making Lace jealous over Arthur won’t help Peeta find himself.  
  
I returned to my seat and was cheered to have Marcus waiting for me with a smile and a fresh drink. Johanna went back to charming Arthur, making sure to lean forward so that the underside of her breasts could clearly be seen beneath her shirt. Arthur’s face was pink, but whether it was from titillation or embarrassment, it was hard to tell. Lace was all over Peeta, smiling up at him, stroking his hand, but her eyes kept flitting to Arthur and Johanna.   
  
And that’s how the night might have continued, if not for Max. He’d been uncharacteristically quiet. I guess he would have felt a little left out. Johanna had monopolized Arthur and I had been mostly talking to Marcus. That left Peeta and Lace, neither of whom were their usual sociable selves. I guess Max wanted to liven things up. Stir the pot a little.   
  
“Hey, Johanna,” he called out. “You seem to be missing half your shirt. Should we take up a collection?”  
  
“Why don’t you take up a collection for the missing half of your brain,” Johanna snapped back. “I don’t know how you got to be a teacher. I’d hate to see your kids.”  
  
“So would I,” laughed Max, having taken no offence at all.   
  
“Max is right,” chipped in Lace. “It’s disgusting how you expose yourself like that. Do you really think people like seeing you naked? It might be how people behave in the Capitol, where they have no morals. But not in the districts. We have standards here – something you evidently know nothing about.”  
  
Johanna’s brown eyes flashed with fury. It was fortunate there was no axe to hand. It might have ended up in Lace’s skull. “Standards, eh? Well, I’ve never lied about who I am. Or had anyone doubt where my loyalties lie. So don’t talk to me about standards, you hypocritical bitch! “  
  
The colour drained from Lace’s face, and her mouth opened to say something but nothing came out. Peeta stared at her in bewilderment. She hasn’t told him. I really thought she would have by now. “Lace, what is she talking about?” he asked. “What’s going on?”   
  
Lace didn’t answer. She just looked beseechingly at Arthur. Arthur rose from his chair and went to her side. “She’s done nothing wrong. It was a misunderstanding, that’s all. We can explain it later. But here isn’t the place.”   
  
“We?” asked Peeta, with voice raised. “How many people know about – whatever this thing I don’t know about is?" He scanned each of our faces in turn. “Johanna?”  
  
Johanna said nothing. She just looked down at the table, but an almost imperceptible sideways glance at me gave it away.   
  
“Katniss, did you know?” he asked me in a hushed tone. I could hear the hurt of betrayal in his voice.  
  
“Yes,” I said, unable to look him in the eye. “I found out when I was in 8 for Sateen’s wedding. I told Haymitch. We thought it better if you heard it from Lace. We thought she would have told you by now.”   
  
“So, everyone knows except me,” said Peeta.   
  
“I don’t,” said Max. “Anyone care to enlighten me?”  
  


“Just shut up,” I hissed at him. I turned back to Peeta. “We didn’t want to interfere. You were so happy . . . and, well, it wasn’t our place. We figured that if things got really serious between you, Lace would tell you. I’m sorry.”  
  
“You and Haymitch . . . this isn’t the first time you’ve kept things from me, is it?”  
  
My skin prickled at the tone of his voice. I sensed danger and the memory of a similar scene cut across my consciousness, of a dome of the Justice Building in 11, of broken furniture and thick dust. Of Peeta, furious, because Haymitch and I hadn’t told him of Snow’s threats. “No,” I whispered.  
  
Peeta made a swift sweeping gesture with his hand as if his body remembered striking out at some phantom object. “This – this – game you two play, where you tell each other secrets but keep them from me like I’m too inconsequential or stupid or weak to handle them.”  
  
“It wasn’t like that Peeta – “ I began.  
  
“It’s exactly like that!” he said, his voice cold with anger. “After all we’ve been through together, don’t I even rate the truth from you?”   
  
“Of course, you do. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”   
  
I was on the verge of tears. I felt Marcus’s arm around my shoulders. “I think it might be a good time to leave,” he said quietly in my ear.  
  
I nodded my assent. People around us were staring, fascinated. The gossips would have a field day with this.   
  
“Jo?” said Marcus.   
  
“Yeah, okay.” Johanna stood and retrieved her coat where it was draped over her chair. “Sorry, Peeta. You shouldn’t have found out like this,” she said, with a meaningful glare at Lace. 

The last image I had was Arthur consoling a sobbing Lace, Peeta watching us walk away, and Max shrugging his shoulders at the onlookers.   
  


All that effort in being scrupulously honest to regain Peeta’s trust destroyed within seconds. I guess I should have told him myself and not relied on either Haymitch or Lace to do it. But then I remember there were also good reasons for _not_ telling him. Between a rock and a hard place, I think they call it. I suppose it’s definitely all over with Peeta now. Even the friendship. Maybe it’s for the best. I was going to separate myself from him anyway. What does it matter if it’s before the wedding, rather than after? Isn’t it better if it’s his decision? That way, I won’t have to find excuses for staying away from him.   
  
And then I think of how Peeta must be feeling right now, and I feel really, really bad in a way that’s unconnected with me. With his memories either distorted or incomplete, he relies on others to be honest with him, and not to keep things from him. How can he know what’s real or not real, otherwise? It must feel like some kind of conspiracy that everyone but himself was included. No wonder it’s evoked memories of what happened in 11. And me, the person he should be able to rely on the most, has let him down.   
  
When I eventually raise my head, I see Johanna regarding me with a puzzled expression.  
  
“It was weird how he took out all his anger on you, wasn’t it? You’d think he’d be mad at Lace, but it was like she didn’t matter.”   
  


“No, not really,” I reply. “It reminded him of another time, that’s all.” And not a good one either, I silently add.   
  
“Do you think they’ll split up over it?”  
  
I shake my head. “I doubt it. Not once things settle down. She hasn’t lied about anything really important. It was only her first name and that she was a factory worker. Even that can be explained away as simply stretching the truth. Lace could be a pet name for Chantilly, and owners do work in their own factories. They just do different kind of work.”  
  
“It was still deception,” says Johanna.   
  
“Yeah, but not meant to harm. He’ll understand why, although he’ll likely be disappointed that she didn’t confide in him in much earlier. And it was only Arthur who knew originally, and that’s because they knew each other before. It’s not like she told the rest of us but not Peeta.”   
  
“Humph” snorts Johanna. “I wouldn’t be so quick to forgive if I were him. A lie is still a lie. Especially if you’re about to marry the guy. And what about what she said to me? What a bitch!”  
  
Well, you did provoke her. And it was probably about time someone called you out on your exhibitionistic tendency to strip off in inappropriate places. Like elevators, for instance. “She had quite a lot to drink,” I say.   
  
“It’s no excuse,” she sniffs. Lace really hurt Johanna’s feelings, but whether it’s over being accused of having no standards, or the notion that people don’t like seeing her naked, is hard to say. “But what about Peeta? Do you think I’m still welcome to stay at his house?”  
  
Good question. Peeta might see the justice of not taking sides in this. After all, Lace had a go at Johanna first, and he doesn’t know what else was going on. But then, a good fiancé wouldn’t want a house guest his bride-to-be is at odds with. I was evicted from the guest room for far less.  
  
“I don’t know,” I say. “But I think it will okay for tonight. They’ll have a lot to talk about. Peeta will probably get home late if he doesn’t stay the night at Lace’s. I’d just wait to see what happens. But there’s always my mother’s old room if you need it.”   
  
I really don’t want Johanna staying here but I feel responsible. I shouldn’t have told her about Lace. Or even told Haymitch. Peeta was the only one I should have told. If I’d kept my mouth shut, none of this would have happened. Oh, no! All those people in the pub who heard Johanna’s accusations. They might not know the details, but it won’t stop the gossip, or prevent anyone from making enquiries, and then finding out. Lace might have to leave the district. And Peeta, as her husband, will have to go with her. He’ll have to leave his home and his job. Everything that is familiar. And it will be all my fault. This is much, much, worse than I first thought. And not only will Peeta and Lace hate me, Arthur will too. I feel sick.   
  


Marcus walks in at that moment carrying three mugs of steaming hot chocolate. I seem destined not to enjoy any of Marcus’s cooking tonight and it tastes like glue in my mouth. We make inconsequential conversation, carefully avoiding any topic connected with the events of the last few hours. Eventually, Johanna makes her leave and Marcus and I are alone.  
  
“Katniss, I know none of this is my business, but if you want to talk . . .”  
  
“Thank you, but talking is what got me into trouble. I’ve made the worst mess of things. I – I don’t . . .” And that’s all I get out before bursting into tears. The next thing I know I’m in Marcus’s arms, sobbing against his chest. He holds me close and says soothing words. And I stay there, cradled against him, until I am spent.  
  



	22. Chapter 22

It’s almost dark when we get home. It’s my fault. I spent half the night awake worrying over Peeta and the other half having nightmares of shooting arrow after arrow into a force field only to have them bounce back and hit Peeta instead. Eventually I fell into a fitful sleep but when I woke, I found I’d overslept by nearly two hours. Marcus said he didn’t wake me because he thought I needed the rest. But it put us behind when we had planned a long walk for that day.   
  
While Marcus heats up vegetable and bean soup, I put some left-over cheese buns in the oven to freshen up. Dinner is almost ready when we’re interrupted by a knock at the front door. It’s Johanna. I step aside to let her in, but she doesn’t move from the porch.   
  
“I’m not staying,” she says, her voice low. “I thought you might like to know what’s going on with Peeta. He got home last night just as I was getting into bed but I didn’t see him until about mid-morning when he came down for something to eat. He seemed – I don’t know – sort of flat and disinterested, like someone who doesn’t know what they should feel. It’s hard to explain. I tried to apologize for what happened last night, but he just waved it away like it didn’t matter. And then he went into his room to paint, and when he came out, it was to bake. And that’s what he’s been doing all day – baking and painting. He did phone Dr Aurelius though. I accidentally overheard some of it.”   
  
“What did he say?” I ask, putting aside any scruples that we’re discussing Peeta’s private conversation with his therapist.  
  
“Well, I only heard snatches, but it was like, “don’t know what’s real,” “deceived by someone I should trust,” “got everything wrong,” and “feel like not trying anymore.” He didn’t really say that much. Dr Aurelius seemed to do most of the talking.”  
  
“Anything about me?” I ask fearfully. I’m sure that if there was, it was bad.  
  
Johanna swallows and shifts her gaze to somewhere over my left shoulder. There’s something she doesn’t want to tell me. A stone lodges in my stomach and rises up into my throat. “Katniss, I think it was all about you. While he was talking, he was holding something in his hand, a necklace of some kind. I found it by the phone after he hung up. It was his token from the Quell. The one he gave you.”  
  
The locket. The locket with Prim, Gale, and my mother’s photos in it. I had given it back to him months ago hoping that it might trigger memories. I rack my brain for what it could mean. Why would he leave it discarded by the phone after saying those things about me? At the very least, the locket was a symbol of the unity and trust between us. It could mean only one thing. He’s given up on me. It’s over. It’s really over.   
  
“I see,” I say. I wrap my arms tightly around myself in an effort to keep it together. “Is there anything else?”  
  
“No,” she answers, ‘but if there’s anything new, I’ll let you know. I hope you don’t mind if I don’t accept your invitation to come stay with you. I think it best if I remain with Peeta for the time being, in case he needs someone to talk to. Someone he can trust.”   
  
I flinch at the word “trust” but I know Johanna doesn’t mean anything by it. I’m glad she’s staying with him, and that he has someone he can depend on. It’s almost certain that Peeta won’t look to me for that anymore.   
  
“Is the wedding still on?” I ask.  
  
Johanna shrugs. “I think so. He’d say something, wouldn’t he? If it was off? He’s still wearing her ring.” Lace had given him a ring on their engagement. It’s silver with a love knot. Lace told him that it’s a symbol of love and devotion. All I saw was another way to mark her territory.  
  


“I didn’t think Peeta would break up with her over it,” I say. “I knew he’d understand if given the chance.”  
  
Johanna gives my arm a sympathetic squeeze before she makes her way back to Peeta’s house. I linger awhile at the door to compose myself before I face Marcus. He doesn’t need me breaking down again. I’ve already made a mess of one sweater.  
  
In the kitchen, Marcus is ladling soup into bowls. He’s retrieved the cheese buns from the oven and set them on a plate in the center of the table.

“Johanna?” he asks.  
  
“Yes,” I say, hoping that that will suffice.

Marcus places a bowl of soup in front of me. It’s thick and nourishing and smells delicious, but I have little appetite. Nonetheless, I pick up my spoon and start eating. I need to force myself to do the normal things. I can’t let despondency over Peeta take control. That’s a sure way to spiral into depression. I take a cheese bun to dip into my soup and wonder if it will be the last of the Peeta-made cheese buns I’ll get to eat. Did he ever remember how he first came to make them for me? Probably not.  
  
“It’s unusual for her to call around mealtime and not stay to eat,” Marcus observes.  
  
“She just came to tell me how Peeta is,” I say. I don’t want to talk about Peeta, but Marcus merits some kind of explanation. How could he not be curious after witnessing what he did last night, and then having to deal with the aftermath of a distraught female sobbing inconsolably against his chest? “She didn’t want to stay away too long. She’s worried about him.”  
  
‘Oh. And, how is he?” he asks, his expression unreadable. 

“Not great, by the sound of things,” I say. “Johanna says he hasn’t said much. Disillusioned with everyone, I guess.”  
  
“Well, naturally he would be. With his fiancé. I don’t understand why he took it out on everyone else, though,” he says. By everyone, I understand he means me. I was the only one Peeta attacked last night.

“It’s not his fault,” I hasten to say, feeling moved to rush to Peeta’s defence whether it’s merited or not. “You’re from the Capitol. You don’t know what he went through after he was captured. “  
  
“I think I have some idea,” says Marcus, with the first hint of irritation I’ve seen from him. “It seems to be a common perception in the Districts that if you’re from the Capitol, you were somehow immune from Snow. Well, we weren’t. We all knew what happened to anyone reckless enough to speak out against him. Most of the menial work in the library was done by Avoxes. I suppose Snow put them there as a joke. No one had to tell them to be quiet. I doubt if the victims found it amusing though. “ 

“I didn’t mean – “I begin. I want to tell him that what I meant was that you really had to see how Peeta was after the hijacking to understand him. But Marcus continues as if I hadn’t spoken. He seems determined to get this out.  
  
“The Games weren’t just mandatory viewing for the Districts either. Maybe not in the way it was for you, with it being policed. But if a neighbor found out, and reported that you weren’t as enthusiastic as you should be, well, people had a way of disappearing. And I know the Games had its avid supporters, with their sponsorships, and betting, and making celebrities out of the winners. But there was also many of us who hated them and wanted them gone. But we were afraid. Afraid of having our tongues cut out. Or worse. So, for the most part, we kept quiet, pretended to go along with it, and went about our lives. Which was very comfortable by most standards – even if the conscience pricked now and then.”   
  
Better them than us, I suppose. Would people in the Districts have behaved any differently if the positions were reversed? I like to think so but honesty compels me to admit that we probably would have been exactly the same. The Capitol was made up of all kinds of people. There were some who exploited the inequality and perhaps even believed we deserved it. And there were those who simply accepted it as just the way of things, like my prep team. And yet others like . . .  
  
I become aware that Marcus is watching me as if he expects some kind of condemnation and I remember one of our earlier conversations about how the Capitol viewed the Districts. It dawns on me that there’s a lot of guilt carried by Marcus and others like him. Maybe this is why he’s so intent on preserving all the forests across Panem when he could have chosen just to fight for the one in his own district. It’s a way of making restitution, of ensuring a better Panem for the future. The more I’ve got to know Marcus, the more this makes sense to me. He’s not at ease in front of the cameras like Peeta. He likes solitary pursuits like reading and hiking mountain trails, not giving interviews or appearing on television. He’s had to stretch far out of his comfort zone to take on the public role he has.   
  
I choose my words carefully. “That’s how Snow operated. It was the same here. All of us too scared to move in case we made it worse for ourselves. And he set people against each other to keep them apart. I know there were people in the Capitol who were sympathetic to the Districts. Do you remember my stylist, Cinna? He designed the wedding dress that turned me into a mockingjay. They killed him for that, and he knew they would. And there was the camera crew who filmed the propos for the rebellion. One of them was an Avox. I don’t know what offence he committed, but he was put to work in the sewers. So, if this is about what Lace said last night, about people from the Capitol having no morals –“  


“I don’t care what Lace thinks, but I do care what you think.”  
  
“Well, you don’t have to convince me. I saw what the Capitol was capable of doing to its own citizens. But you have to understand that most people in the Districts didn’t get to see that. They only saw how much you had of everything while we starved. And then there was the Games, of course. But when I said you wouldn’t understand about Peeta, I didn’t mean that because you were from the Capitol, you couldn’t know how cruel Snow was. I meant you didn’t see what the hijacking did to him. How it changed him.”  
  
“I saw him try to bash your head in with the butt of his gun and then kick the poor guy who tried to subdue him into a pod,” he replies, his face set hard. “And then at Snow’s execution, when he attacked you again.”  
  
“No, no that’s not – “I start to say. I have to restrain myself from putting my hands to my face and groaning. Not Marcus too! “I know how it would have looked on TV, but there’s more to it than that.” I really can’t blame Marcus for what he thinks he knows, any more than I can blame Max. They only saw what the Capitol wanted them to see and there’s been nothing since – no counter-claims, no witness accounts – that could contradict the Capitol’s version of it. One day someone is going to have to write a true account of what happened. Someone who was actually there.   
  
I think quickly, going back to that day when Boggs was killed. We had taken refuge in a deserted apartment after a massive wave of black tar-like gel engulfed the streets. Inside the apartment was a spiral staircase that led to a living room with plush furniture and a huge television that covered an entire wall. Peeta was cuffed and unconscious and draped over one of the sofas and the rest of us were milling around, unsure of our next move when suddenly the television burst into life. Cressida explained that it was an emergency broadcast that went to all the televisions across the Capitol. Presumably, it was also broadcast to the Districts if Max had seen it. 

The footage started just after the bomb that took off Bogg’s legs. Homes and I are seen tending to him, huddled over, our backs to the cameras. Peeta stands to the side, watching, hopping from one foot to the other, clearly agitated. Chaos erupts when a wall of thick black goo surges towards us. Homes and I begin to drag Boggs to safety and he cries out in agony. Then Peeta, in a sudden movement, seizes me by the shoulders, yanks me backwards and I crash to the ground. His gun is raised to smash into my skull, but I manage to roll in the nick of time, and the gun slams down onto the pavement. Mitchell tackles Peeta to the ground, but Peeta gets his feet under him and catapults him further down the road, straight into the pod that kills him. Other members of the squad rush in to restrain Peeta, and he threshes fiercely in their grip like a wild animal caught in a trap.   
  
It’s all very damning. And it was played over and over, with close-ups of Peeta’s face, contorted with maniacal fury. It was made even worse by the voice-over. It described Peeta as a dangerous lunatic, so crazed with blood lust, that not even the girl he purports to love more than life itself is safe from him.   
  
And then there’s Snow’s execution. I don’t know what the media did with this if anything. I was in solitary confinement and I know nothing of the aftermath. But I can imagine how it must have appeared to the audience. The shock and disbelief when my arrow pierced Coin’s heart and she toppled lifeless to the ground. The guards, stunned into inaction, were slow to react. In those remaining seconds of freedom, I contemplated my future – torture, execution – and decided to end my life. But the audience couldn’t have known I was thinking that. Nor could they have known about the nightlock pill secreted in a small pocket on my sleeve. What they do know is that Peeta lunged forward to seize me by the arm and of my attempts to wrest myself free by sinking my teeth into his hand, and struggling against him with all my might. Could I have been acting in self- defence? I can see how it might have been interpreted that way.   
  
I put down my spoon. I have a lot of clearing up to do. But where to start . . .  
  
“They say the beginning is a good place,” says Marcus.   
  
I didn’t realise I’d said it aloud. But yes, the beginning. The day Peeta tossed me two loaves of bread and took a beating for it.  
  
“So, you see, that ran so counter to his true self,” I say, as I come to the end. “And he did in fact, save my life two more times after that . . . ah, incident with the gun. And you also have to remember that he only did it because he thought someone was being harmed.”  
  
“Harmed by you, to be precise. He didn’t attack the other guy,” he points out.  
  
“No, but it was me Peeta had been programmed to think of as a mutt and a danger to others. Later he came to see it as false. And, of course, Dr Aurelius wouldn’t have allowed him to be released if it wasn’t safe. After all, he was only a threat to me and he knew Peeta intended to return to 12.” 

As I speak, a terrible thought occurs to me. The way he spoke to me last night. Maybe he thought Lace was under attack, and I was responsible for it. That without him being aware of it, he still thinks I’m a mutt. It would explain a lot. His distrust of me, his initial reluctance to regain memories of our past together, the guest room ban, the way he’s interpreted the way he has. It’s to keep me at a safe distance. As anyone would, with a treacherous mutt. 

“Why did he come back? Was it to rekindle your relationship?”  
  
“Huh?” I splutter, startled by the question. I almost want to laugh. The ridiculous idea of Peeta wanting to make love to a mutt.   
  
“I’m sorry. It’s none of my business. I shouldn’t have – “he begins.   
  
“No, it’s okay,” I assure him. It’s not unreasonable for him to ask. I bared my soul about everything else. I had even told him how I felt about Peeta – how confused I was in the beginning and how I gradually came to feel the same way for him as he did for me.   
  
The difficulty though, is that I don’t really know why he did come back. I thought I did, but I turned out to be so wrong. The primrose bushes, coaxing me out of my depression with cheese buns and cozy breakfasts together, were overtures of friendship, not romantic interest. And I wasn’t the only one with expectations. The public had too and it’s not so surprising considering how the star-crossed lovers were promoted. Katniss and Peeta no longer together? Peeta in love with another? Unthinkable! I see the speculative way people look at me when they learn that Peeta is with another girl now. Some pityingly, others accusingly as if it’s something I did. I don’t know what Peeta tells them, assuming they ask. Possibly what he told Lace, that the star-crossed lovers had never been real and now we’re just good friends, as we were always meant to be.   
  
“I’m not sure why he came back. But 12 is his home. And his house is here. He thinks of Haymitch and me as family. There’s a bond that forms between victors,” I say, with a shrug.

“How do you feel about him now? Are you okay with how things turned out?”

He watches me closely as if something important hinges on what answer I give. I barely know myself how I feel about Peeta now. I still love him; I know that much. But my trust in him has eroded to the point where I don’t know if it exists anymore. As to being fine with how things turned out, the honest answer is a decided no. But if I’m to start a new life, as I must, then certain things have to be left behind. A new narrative, written my Katniss Everdeen herself is what’s needed. Not by someone who’s been compelled to bend to the wind most of her life. The tragic tale of the star-crossed lovers was essentially written by Peeta. I was merely swept along with it. The same with the Mockingjay thing. That was written by the public, and then by Coin and Plutarch. But it’s time to stop. From now on, I want to be the author of my life. Besides, the fewer people who are aware of my private heartbreak the better. Sympathy, although well-meaning, just makes it harder. 

“When Peeta came back, I had hopes,” I say carefully, feeling my way. “He could have gone to any district but he chose 12. And there wasn’t much here then. Only the Village. So, I thought, that maybe, he’d come because of me. But it wasn’t the same. Peeta wasn’t the same. So, I was sad for a long while. And it was hard, especially when he started seeing Lace. But eventually, I came to realize that as much as you might want to, you can’t recreate the past. I’m glad now that Peeta’s found someone. He deserves to be happy after everything he’s been through. And I’m ready to move on with my life too.” There, a mostly truthful account with a hope-filled ending I’m determined to make true. 

He smiles at me then. A warm, gentle smile. “Good. Because you deserve to be happy too.”


	23. Chapter 23

_Ready to move on with my life._ I repeat this mantra at least a dozen times the following day. I say it as I walk to work. I say it as I clean the blackboard. I say it as I walk past the bakery. I say it as I pass through the Village gates on my way home. I’m still saying it when I go to answer the knock at the door, and I say it again when I see who it is. It’s Peeta.   
  


He hangs back as if he’s unsure what kind of welcome he’ll get. He looks tired, with dark circles under his eyes and his clothes are a little dishevelled as if they’ve been slept in. One hand clutches a large, bulging paper bag. A silver ring with a love knot gleams dully on one finger.   
  
He gives me a hesitant smile. “Hi,” he says.

“Hi,” I say in return.

There are a few seconds of uncomfortable silence. If Peeta has a reason for being here, he’s slow to get to it. “Um, do you want to come in?” I ask. Maybe that’s what he’s waiting for. I step back to give him room.  
  
He hesitates for a moment as if considering it. “Thanks, but I can’t stay. I have to get into town. I just wanted to see you before I left. To give you this.” I take the bag he offers me. I unfold the top and see that it’s full of cookies. A least six different kinds. He _has_ been busy. “And to apologize for the other night. I shouldn’t have yelled at you like that. I know none of it is your fault. I don’t why I did – I think it just reminded me – “  
  
“Of another time?” I interject. “I thought that’s what happened. Memories are returning, then?”  
  
He nods. “Yeah, and at unexpected times and places. I was wrong to blame you that other time too, wasn’t I?”  
  
I shrug. “It’s not nice to be the last to know, especially when it concerns yourself,” I concede. “We – that is, Haymitch and I – thought Lace would have told you since you’re engaged and all. That’s why we didn’t.” I refrain from mentioning that I had also threatened her.   
  
“I understand. It was Lace’s place to tell me. No one else.”   
  
We lapse into silence again, but even though Peeta has said what he came to say, he makes no move to go.  
  
“I missed you this morning,” I blurt out when the silence becomes untenable. I want to kick myself. The plan was to pretend I hadn’t noticed. But I waited nearly fifteen minutes for him to show when I shouldn’t have even given him one second. He was the one at fault, not me. As the day progressed, the anger built and when Max started on me with his usual teasing, he got the full force of it, and he left me alone. And I know he was just dying to pester me for details of what happened at the pub.   
  
“Yeah, I’m sorry about that,” he says, all contrition. “I’ve had a couple of rough nights and I slept in. I ended up taking the day off work.” 

“Oh,” I feel myself soften a little. That’s something I can relate to. He does look very tired, exhausted even. And there’s something about it that’s familiar, a sort of haunted look about the eyes. I guess it takes one to know one. “Nightmares?”   
  
“Yeah, I’ve been having them for a while now. They came with the memories, but the ones just lately . . .” He doesn’t finish but looks away as if he can’t meet my eye.   
  
“They’ve got worse?” I prompt.   
  
“No. Not worse, just . . . different.”   
  
I wait for him to elaborate but he doesn’t. Maybe he wants me to ask. He seems to be waiting for something. But I don’t want to know about his nightmares. If he wants to talk to someone about them, he has Lace.   
  
“I guess it’s the cost of finding yourself,” I say rather unhelpfully. “But I sympathise about the nightmares. They can be brutal.” Unbidden, a hint of animosity creeps into my voice. That guest room ban still rankles.   
  
“I’ve found that out,” he replies. “I’m sorry now that I wasn’t more understanding of yours. I suppose you can add that to the list of the many things I have to be sorry about.”  
  
There’s another pause. He wants me to ask what they are, I know he does. But I’m tired of this round-a-bout way of conversing. It’s confusing me. If he has something to tell me then why doesn’t he just say it straight out? I thought he was in a hurry to get into town, anyway.   
  
“Well, thanks for the cookies. There’s enough to keep me going for weeks, but I’m sure Marcus will help out.” I don’t know why I bring up Marcus, except to show Peeta that I can have someone too if I want. “I’d better not keep you any longer.”  
  
He does that looking away thing again. “You’re right, I should be going. I have a lot to do.” He turns back to me with a sad smile. “Bye Katniss. I guess I’ll see you around.”  
  
I watch him pass through the village gates and then disappear from sight. He seems so forlorn, almost defeated. The nightmares must have come back with a vengeance. And I suppose this business with Lace has knocked him around a bit too. I have an impulse to run after him and put my arms around him, to give comfort in any way I can. I don’t act on it, of course. Besides, what did he mean by “I’ll see you around?” Surely, he should have said, “I’ll see you tomorrow?” It must mean he’s decided not to walk with me into town anymore. I suppose he’s realized that he can’t continue to cling to the friendship the way he has, not when he’s to marry soon. I don’t know whether to feel anger or relief. I decide on relief. It will be easier for us both. 

Johanna comes over for a visit, conveniently right on dinnertime. We sneak in a few words about Peeta while Marcus isn’t listening, but she has little to add to what she told me last night, other than the locket is still by the phone where he left it. 

After dinner, Johanna and I decide to visit Haymitch. Marcus is occupied pouring over maps so we won’t be missed. Unfortunately, our timing is off. Haymitch has settled into his favorite lounge chair with a bottle of white liquor and a big paper bag of cookies beside him. “One Life to Live” is about to start and this particular episode has been promoted as not to be missed. Apparently, Celia is to lose the chaste in Chastely.   
  
Johanna and I clear a space on the sofa and sit down. There’ll be no conversation until “One Life to Live” is over. I sigh. You have to be brain dead to enjoy this show. But then I see Haymitch take a swig of his liquor. I guess he’d have lost a significant number of brain cells by now.   
  
The show opens with Ginger having the final fitting for her wedding gown.   
  
“She looks like a giant puff-ball,” comments Johanna.  
  
“It’s to hide her pregnancy. It must be quite advanced by now,” I say.  
  
“Quiet!” barks Haymitch.  
  
Chastened, Johanna and I turn our attention back to the TV. Blake and Ginger are consulting with the caterers over the menu for the reception. Ginger wants it all to be ginger-colored to go with her name. She decides on sweet potato souffle, lobster with thousand islands dressing and blood orange jelly with carrot ice-cream for dessert. Blake is apathetic about it. He looks like a man who’s given up all hope. His roguish older brother, Ryder, who accompanies them, tries to cheer him up with a dirty joke but it barely raises a smile.  
  
Meanwhile, it appears that Celia has got herself a boyfriend. Her parents enthusiastically approve. His name is Lance Bounder and his family owns the largest marijuana plantation in the district. Actually, it’s grown and sold as hemp, but everyone knows where the real source of the Bounders’ wealth comes from and it’s not from rope. On the surface, Lance is perfect for Celia. Amazingly good looking with abs to die for. Wealthy, charming, loves horses and small fluffy animals and, most importantly, shares the Chastely passion for organic farming.   
  
On this day, Celia is spending the day at the Bounder mansion. The rest of the family is out, leaving Celia and Lance all alone. Lance reaches into a dish for what looks like dried-up grass and stuffs it into a small pipe. After it’s lit, he offers it to Celia.  
  
“I couldn’t possibly,” says Celia. “I don’t approve of mind-altering drugs.”  
  
“It’s 100 per cent organic,” says Lance.  
  
“Oh, alright then,” says Celia, and takes a puff. And another. And then another.   
  
Celia loses all inhibition. Clothes are strewn the length of the room and soon Celia and Lance are engaged in passionate sex.   
  
“Wow,” Johanna whispers to me. “Outside of the porn channel, I didn’t know they allowed this sort of thing on television. Is he licking her – “  
  
“Yes,” I say quickly before she can say the word.  
  
“It looks as if he’s trying to reach her tonsils.”  
  
After they’ve tried multiple positions, they call out for the gardener. He’s been clipping the same hedge by the window since soon after they started.   
  


“What are they doing?” I whisper to Johanna.  
  


“Making a sandwich,” she whispers back.  
  
Eventually, all three of them collapse exhausted. The camera pans over Celia’s face. The corners of her mouth curve into euphoric smile.   
  
“She’s going to regret it the next day,” murmurs Johanna in my ear.  
  
“Why do you think that?” Celia seems very content to me.  
  
“Urinary tract infection. Believe me, I know,” she answers.  
  
Next, we see Blake and Ryder on the porch of the Knightly home having a drink together. A glorious sunset delineates the oil rigs in the distance, but Blake is blind to its beauty. He’s sunk in despondency. Ryder watches him, deeply worried.  
  
The episode ends with Ginger meeting secretly with the real father of her baby – the lead guitarist in the punk rock band “The Sucking Mosquitos.” She tells him that soon after the baby is born she intends to file for divorce and get half of Blake’s fortune. The lovers seal their dastardly plan with a passionate kiss. 

  
The closing credits roll. Haymitch fumbles around for the remote control, eventually finds it down the side of the chair, and turns off the television.   
  
“So, what do you two want?” he asks crossly. I guess I should have remembered that Monday nights are special to Haymitch. He likes to sit and relax with his favorite soap while imbibing a bottle or two of alcoholic beverage.   
  
“Can’t we just visit a neighbor without wanting anything?” I reply.  
  
“It would be a first. So, what is it? Information about the boy? What makes you think I have any?”  
  
“That bag of cookies for a start,” says Johanna. “We know he’s been here. Peeta baked enough to feed an army. We’re concerned for him, that’s all.”  
  
Haymitch’s eyes travel to Johanna before landing on me. He looks skeptical. And then he shrugs.   
  
“Memories are coming thick and fast and he doesn’t know what to do with them. He says they’re all mixed up in his head. He had a lot of questions about what happened in 13.” He looks in my direction. “Your reaction to his capture. How you came to be the Mockingjay. Questions like that.”  
  
“What did you tell him?” I ask.  
  
“The truth. That you became the Mockingjay so he’d have immunity. How I got the scars on my face. Why he was rescued.”  
  
“What he did he say?”  
  
“He said you must have cared for him very much.”  
  
“And?”  
  
“That’s all. He didn’t have any more questions. That’s what you want, isn’t it? Only tell him what he asks?”   
  
“But how did he seem? Was he happy about it?”   
  
Haymitch pauses as if can’t decide to be truthful or tactful. He settles on his usual bluntness. “He seemed upset.”  
  
My heart sinks. For the briefest of moments, hope had flared. But like always, it was another false alarm.  
  
Haymitch opens his mouth to add something but his attention is claimed by Johanna. “Did he tell you about Lace?” she demands. 

Through a fog, I hear them talk about what happened at the pub and Peeta’s reaction to it. Only one thought reverberates through my brain. He knows! He knows! And it didn’t make him happy. The very opposite, in fact.   
  
“. . . making a mistake. But it’s up to him. Katniss, what do you think?”  
  
“Hmm? Ah, yes. Up to him,” I stammer. Johanna gives me an odd look and then goes back to talking with Haymitch.  
  
“Are you alright?” she asks shortly after we leave. “You’re acting weird, even for you.”  
  
I scowl at her. “I’m fine. I’m just tired, that’s all.”  
  
“Better have an early night then.” Johanna lets out a massive yawn. “Actually, I think I could do with one myself. ‘night.”  
  
“Goodnight.” 

Johanna makes the short journey across the road to Peeta’s house while I make the even shorter one to my house next door. But I don’t go in. Instead, I sit down on the porch steps in a secluded corner where it’s as dark as pitch and I’m hidden from the street. I need to think. Was there anything I missed in that strange conversation I had with Peeta? Some clue that it isn’t as bad as I think it is.   
  
Peeta had called in on Haymitch first. That much is certain. He must have because he left to go into town after he called in on me. That means he already knew. I go over what was said as closely as I can remember. He said he has nightmares. There’s nothing unusual in that. He had them before he lost all his memories. It’s not so surprising then that the nightmares came back when the memories did. And he also said something about a list of things to be sorry about. Well, so do I. Nearly everyone has something they wish they could take back, or do differently. If there’s an advantage in losing one’s memories is that you can’t remember what you have to feel sorry for.  
  
So, I can’t see that anything he _said_ that suggests that what Haymitch told him made him see me any differently.  
  
But the way he _acted_ did. Haymitch said he’d been upset, and he didn’t seem happy when he came to see me either. He’d be glad, wouldn’t he, if my being in love with him was a good thing? A positive thing? Of course, he would. The news wasn’t welcome then. That would explain why he could hardly look me in the eye. It _is_ awkward when someone loves you and you don’t return it. I remember that feeling with Gale. You feel bad. Bad for them. And bad for yourself, because whatever easy relationship you had can never be the same again. That must be why he’s not walking with me into town anymore. He knows he has to separate himself for my sake, as well as his own. He can’t be with Lace and knowingly continue a friendship with someone he knows is in love with him.   
  
I want to crawl into a hole and die. It’s what I’ve been dreading all along. I feel so humiliated. For once heartbreak doesn’t come into it. I’ve been dealing with that for months – even become reconciled to it. But I had my pride. And now I don’t even have that. How can I face him, knowing that he knows? He’s probably gone over in his head all the clues he’s missed. My up and down moods, my insistence that he find his former self. What a fool I’ve been thinking that it would make any difference. If he loved me, he’d love me, memories or not. The hijacking wasn’t the cause. His love for me had simply burned out. Or he’s been right all this time. It _was_ an illusion. Never real in the first place. I am _so_ stupid. Peeta’s been telling me all along how he feels, but I’ve refused to accept it.   
  
I don’t know how long I stay on the porch. It’s like I can’t move, because to do so will require some kind of action or emotion on my part. A great weariness seems to have pervaded my very bones. I haven’t felt this way since those early days when I returned to 12 when my entire world had shrunk to an old rocker in a corner of my kitchen. It seems such a comforting thing, to shut the world out entirely, and not have to deal with it. Across the road, I see the lights in Peeta’s house go out. Johanna has retired for the night then. Haymitch is still up. Even from here, I can hear his television blaring. Life goes on, whether I participate or not. 

I stretch out my stiffened legs and rise from the porch. Perhaps this is for the best, this end of hope. I can give up this game. That the question of whether I can regain Peeta’s love has been answered, even if that answer is a resounding no. I’m now entirely free to act as I wish because whatever I do won’t make a scrap of difference as far as Peeta is concerned. It’s strange, but it’s almost like a weight has been lifted. I haven’t realized until now how much I had been clinging to hope, while all the while telling myself that there was none.  
  
I can survive this just as I’ve survived everything else. I know I can. It might even mark the start of something new and exciting. Why, I’ll try every food at the feast! Or maybe I’ll find love again. Peeta had. What did he say to me once, when I despaired that I will never again be loved as he had loved me? “I hope that you will, and it will the kind of love where you both feel the same way about each other." Somehow the remembrance of it makes me angry. It was right after he told me not to come over at night anymore because he wanted to be a good boyfriend to Lace. Well, I’ll show him. I don’t need you, Peeta Mellark. I never really did.  
  


Marcus has started to pack away his maps when I enter the house.   
  
“How was Haymitch?” he asks.  
  
“He’s good. We had to sit through “One Life to Live” though. Celia lost her virginity and Blake is miserable. That’s all you really need to know.”  
  
Marcus laughs. “Good to see the tables turned for a change. And no, I don’t watch it, if that’s what you’re thinking. I’ve just seen the advertising for it.”  
  
I walk over to the table and peer down at one of the charts. It’s an aerial photograph of the lake area. A small square structure at the edge of the lake must be the concrete house. Marcus comes to stand close behind me.  
  
“I’ve been mapping out walks we can do from the lake. Nothing too arduous. I thought it would be nice if we have time to simply relax and enjoy the surroundings. Here, I’ll show you one of them.”  
  
He takes one of my hands and traces a loop that takes in a densely wooded area nearby. I know it well. 

His body is warm against my back and I lean into it. The hand that covers mine comes to rest around my waist to pull me closer. I close my eyes and imagine that it’s Peeta’s strong arm encircling me, Peeta’s body responding to mine. No, no, don’t think that. This yearning for Peeta must stop. This is my future now. Embrace it. I empty my mind and concentrate solely on the sensations. Something stirs in me, something primitive and wholly physical that has been suppressed for far too long. And there’s something else too. A need for human contact? Affection? Reassurance that even if Peeta doesn’t want me I’m still desirable and worthy of being loved? I don’t know what it is and I don’t stop to analyze it. I’m done with thinking. I want to be a creature purely of the senses, unconcerned with anything beyond the moment. His free hand pushes aside my braid and his head dips to nuzzle my neck. His beard, rough and soft at the same time, sends tiny shockwaves of pleasure down the entire length of my body. And when I turn within the circle of his arms, his lips are waiting for me.   
  



	24. Chapter 24

Soon after we arrive, I set to work sweeping the floor clear of dust with the twig broom my father made for me. Then I take a few logs from the woodpile in the corner and transfer them to the fireplace for use later on. That done, cooking and eating utensils are placed by the hearth. Sleeping mats are unrolled, sleeping bags are shaken out and then arranged on top. It’s like playing house again. Just as I did when my father brought me here as a child.   
  
I survey my work, satisfied that I’ve made our accommodation as comfortable as I can make it. I’ve put about three feet between the sleeping mats. Not so close as to be an invitation, but not so far apart that it looks like I’m keeping him at a distance either. Because I’m not yet sure how I should proceed. This is all so new to me, and I’m hopelessly out of my depth. Gale and Peeta belong to my teenage years and kissing was as far as it went. An adult relationship comes with a different set of expectations. I have to be careful that I don’t start something that could quickly escalate into something I’m not ready for. But something has started already, a little voice tells me. It started when you returned his kisses.   
  
I put my hand to my lips at the memory. Yes, I returned them. And with such enthusiasm that it took Marcus by surprise. But he recovered quickly, and matched passion with passion. We stumbled over to the sofa, displacing a furious Buttercup as we collapsed onto it, barely breaking the kiss. I welcomed his hand on my breast, and the hand on my behind pulling me against his hardness. Even the hand between my legs, stroking through the thick fabric of my khaki trousers. But when he whispered “bedroom” in my ear, I froze. I was like Haymitch, jolted to rude consciousness by a jug of cold water poured over my head. Shocked, disorientated, confused. What was I doing? I’m in love with Peeta. I muttered something about moving too fast and Marcus accepted it, perhaps putting it down to District conservativeness when it comes to sex. He’s been very solicitous of me these past few days, but there have been no more kisses. It’s like he’s giving me my space. The problem is that I’m not sure I want it. 

Since I see no clear solution to the problem, I push it aside for the time being and set to my next task which is to cast out fishing lines to catch my dinner. Marcus has brought cans of beans and dehydrated meals you add water to. While I don’t dislike beans, they’re no substitute for freshly caught fish. I brought along my bow but it’s for protection from predators and it won’t be used to bring down waterfowl on this trip. Marcus hasn’t said anything about my hunting, but I suspect anyone who is both conservationist _and_ a vegetarian probably wouldn’t approve. When the woods are turned into a national park, there will be restrictions on hunting. Maybe even a ban. I have mixed feelings. I never hunted for sport, only for food. But it was a hard-earned skill, and one I’ve been very proud of. I can see why it has to be done. I’d much rather a forest teeming with life than a free-for-all for trigger-happy hunters to practice their target shooting. But it will be a sad day, nonetheless. And that’s another thing that won’t stay the same. 

But what is still the same, for now anyway, are the lake and the concrete house. To my relief, they were exactly as I left them. Neither showed any sign of recent human activity. But it’s only a matter of time before others discover it too. At little more than a half-day walk from the meadow, it’s a wonder it hasn’t happened already.   
  
Once the lines are out, there’s nothing to do but wait. I flop down onto a grassy spot near the bank to enjoy the sunshine and the scenery. It’s a lovely day. The sun is warm, but not hot. The breeze is gentle and just cool enough to be refreshing. Nature is bountiful here. Ducks and geese float serenely on the lake. Birds chatter in the trees. Frogs croak and the scent of pine permeates the air. In the distance, I see Marcus exploring the area, making notes and taking measurements. Perhaps he’s planning a viewing platform or something. He said he wants to keep the lake as untouched as possible. No hunting or fishing huts like they had in the past.   
  
My mind wanders to other times spent here. With my father, who taught me how to swim in this very lake, and where to dig for katniss roots. That time with Gale when I tried to persuade him to escape with me into the woods. He told me he loved me that day. But I couldn’t say it back and it changed things between us, far more than the kiss ever did. At least I could pretend the kiss never happened since Gale said nothing about it when we next met. But once a friend has declared love, and it’s not returned, the friendship is over. Maybe not straight away, but its demise is inevitable. There’s no going back.  
  
Peeta would have thought of this. Especially since he’s to be married soon. Too awkward and painful for all concerned. Better to put it out of its misery than have it die a lingering death. I haven’t seen him since that strange conversation on my porch when he told me he’d see me around. The next morning, when I left for work, I didn’t wait for him but marched briskly towards the town. But I couldn’t help looking back every few minutes, hoping that I had somehow misinterpreted his meaning and he was behind me trying to catch me up. He wasn’t.   
  
And then I think of my very last visit to the lake almost a year ago. It was a stiflingly hot day. I had ventured outside with the intention of checking on Haymitch but instead caught Peeta as he was about to go into town. He was to meet Lace at the swimming pool where they were having swimming lessons together. He asked me along, but the prospect of spending an afternoon in their company as some kind of hanger-on was the last thing I wanted.  
  
Suddenly at a loss, I abandoned my earlier plan to visit Haymitch and headed for the woods. All I could think about was Peeta. How well-suited Lace was for him, and how much I wasn’t. My self-esteem was at its lowest ebb. I couldn’t think of one admirable quality I possessed. I couldn’t imagine why anyone would love me.

Instinct more than anything propelled my feet towards the lake. Maybe because this place reminds me of my father and a time when I felt loved. I ended up staying overnight, unwilling to face the long walk back in the heat. There was a victor’s dinner that night but it didn’t occur to me that I’d be missed.   
  
But I was. They phoned me several times until Haymitch was dispatched to my house to look for me. I met Peeta the following day on the road that leads to the Village. I was returning home and he was going into Town. He said he had worried about me, that anything could have happened. He did look as if hadn’t slept, so maybe he had worried, but he didn’t try to find me. I didn’t ask why at the time. It didn’t occur to me. I was too resentful at the presumption that I couldn’t look after myself.   
  
I followed him into town as he asked. He had something to tell me that apparently couldn’t wait. I wasn’t to come over at night anymore to sleep in his guest room because it made him a bad boyfriend. I recall he had a visitor that night, probably Lace. I guess that’s why it was so urgent. Can’t have the ex-fiancé turning up in the middle of the night when the new girlfriend is staying over.   
  
Looking back, that’s when I should have seen the signs and ended it. None of this insistence that he gets his memories back. All it led to was a year of futility and frustration. I should have known that my Peeta was gone when his first instinct was to protect Lace rather than me.   
  
I can’t be mad at him. This is what the hijacking was meant to achieve. That it didn’t succeed in its full objective to make him completely hate me, is of little comfort. It took what I cherished most and killed it.   
  
Perhaps, since he couldn’t love me the way he used to, I should be thankful that Peeta put a stop to the guest room sleep-overs. At least it gave me the impetus to make a stand, and get off my backside and do something with my life. I have friends and a job I love now. And there’s a man who seems to like me a lot. He’s over by the concrete house right now, getting a campfire started. He’s not my boyfriend, but would he be, if I opened that door? All I know is that it’s far too soon for me to love anyone. Anyway, there can’t be much future in it. He won’t be staying in 12 forever and I can’t go anywhere.   
  
When I check the fishing lines, I find one has caught a nice trout. It’s not very big, but plenty enough for one person. I remove the hook from its mouth and take a folding knife from my pocket to clean and scale it. Then I walk over to where Marcus is. He’s got the fire burning nicely and is in the process of emptying a can of beans into a saucepan.   
  
“I’ve got my dinner,” I announce brightly, holding my fish aloft.  
  
He glances my way just long enough to take in the fish before he turns his attention back to the beans. He says nothing.  
  
“What?” I exclaim. His back is turned to me but I see disapproval in every line.  
  
“Nothing,” he says, barely deigning to look at me. “But I don’t see why you had to kill another living creature when we have plenty of food. Which, by the way, is undersized. It should have been thrown back.”  
  
I stand there gaping at him, completely taken aback. I’m not used to receiving criticism from Marcus and it takes a few seconds to find my voice.   
  


“It is _not_ undersized. Well, maybe a little, but not by much. I don’t get this. You know I hunt. Why shouldn’t I eat fish if that’s what I want? Not everyone wants to eat rabbit food all the time. Like you.”   
  
“Rabbits don’t eat beans,” he says. He calmly places the saucepan of beans on the metal grate before standing and turning his attention to me. “I just don’t see the need to eat meat, that’s all, when we can live very well without it.  
  
“You eat milk and eggs,” I say accusingly. “They come from animals.”  
  
“Yes, but we don’t kill the animal to get them. When this place becomes a national park, there’ll be no fishing. But it’s done now, so you might as well eat it. It will have lost its life for nothing if you don’t.”  
  
I’m so mad, I want to take my fish and slap him across the face with it. It’s almost as if my very reason for existence has been challenged. My hunting skills are what kept me alive in the Games. Hunting is what kept myself and my family from starvation. He’s never had to worry about where his next meal is coming from. It must be so nice to have _choices_.  
  
“I don’t see that I’ve done anything wrong. Big fish eat little fish. Big animals eat smaller animals. It’s how nature works, so get over it.”  
  
I look around for something to put my fish in but I don’t see a frying pan. But then I remember I put some cooking things by the hearth in the concrete house. That suits me just fine. I could use some distance from Marcus right now. Besides, I don’t want to use his fire. I want my own. I wouldn’t want to contaminate his by using it to cook meat. Maybe tomorrow I’ll roast a duck. That’ll show him.  
  
The trouble is that it’s hard to start a fire with just logs. You need some kind of kindling, and there’s nothing in the house that will do. I did too good a job sweeping it clean of leaves and other debris.   
  
“Katniss”, I hear him call out. “What are you doing?”

“I’m cooking my fish like you said I should.”  
  
Footsteps approach and I know by the shadow that falls across the room that he’s standing at the entrance.   
  
“Look, this is ridiculous. Come and cook the fish out here. I’ve finished heating the beans. The fire’s all yours. I’m sorry if it came across as judgmental. It’s just something I feel strongly about but I don’t expect you to feel the same. You should enjoy your fish.”   
  
Somewhat mollified, I rise from my crouched position by the hearth to follow him outside. But then he ruins it. “And, anyway, there shouldn’t be two fires when one will suffice.”   
  
“ _You_ shouldn’t have made a new fire in the first place,” I return hotly. “Doesn’t it say somewhere in your camping books that you should always use an existing site rather than make a new one? And I’d already stacked it with wood.”  
  
“I didn’t want to smoke out . . . Katniss, just get out here before I come in and carry you out. You’re being childish.”   
  
“ _I’m_ being childish?” I screech indignantly. He’s blocking my way, but I go to push past him. “What about – “

My words are suddenly cut off by his lips on mine. One arm encircles my body to pin my arms to my sides while the other cradles the back of my head. I struggle briefly but it’s a token attempt. The kiss goes on for a long time. “Go cook your fish,” he whispers against my lips. And then he pushes me gently outside.  
  
My fish is delicious. I stuff the inside with wild herbs and pan fry it gently so that the skin crisps but doesn’t burn. It would go well with roasted katniss roots and I decide to search for some tomorrow. Marcus shouldn’t have a problem with katniss roots since they are plants. That is, unless plants are protected in a national park too. Perhaps I shouldn’t risk it. But then I think of the kiss, so maybe I will. My appetite has been whetted for something else besides food.  
  


I wonder if I’m a bad person for having lustful thoughts about Marcus. Only days before I was having them about Peeta. I would have given anything to have him sweep me into his arms, tell me that it was really me he had loved me all along and that Lace was a terrible mistake he’ll regret for the rest of his life, and then make passionate love to me. And to be honest, I still would. But that’s impossible and there’s no sense in thinking like that anymore. I’m twenty years old, a virgin, and the most I’ve ever done is kissing, and there’s been very little of that in recent years. It dawns on me that that I’m starved for physical affection. And not just affection either. I want sex. Hot, unbridled, to-hell-with-the consequences sex. Like the sex Celia had in that silly show “One Life to Live.” Not the sandwich thing though. Oh, who am I kidding, I almost feel reckless enough to try that too. I’ve nothing to lose. Certainly not Peeta. And I know Marcus wants it, only he’s too much of a gentleman to push me any further than where I put a halt to it the other night. I’m the one who’s going to have to make a move, then. Only I don’t have the first clue how to go about it.   
  
While Marcus is occupied cleaning the cooking utensils, I sneak inside the concrete house and push the sleeping mats together. I hope he gets the hint. I hold my hand to my mouth to check my breath. I should brush my teeth. The rest of me could do with freshening up too. I take from my pack a toiletry bag and a large washcloth that doubles as a towel and pad out to the lake. Marcus has disappeared somewhere, maybe to find a tree a suitable distance away. He doesn’t like to pee too close to a water source.   
  
Dusk has fallen, but there’s still enough light to make out my surroundings. I set my things by the lake’s edge and remove my boots and socks. I dip a toe in to test the water. It’s freezing. A sponge bath then. I brush my teeth and then remove my shirt to wash under my arms. But it’s hopelessly inadequate. I want to be clean all over.  
  
Hurriedly, I take off all my clothes, grab the bar of soap (eco-friendly, of course), and wade out far enough until the water is past my thighs. It’s the fastest bath I’ve ever had. Soap, rinse, get out. It’s not only the cold that makes me rush, it’s the thought of Marcus coming across me naked which is really stupid because I hope we both are by night’s end. But since there’s still no sight of him, I relax a little and take my time toweling myself dry. I forgot to bring something to change into and since I don’t want to put my dirty clothes back on, I bundle everything together and dash towards the house. I’ll put something on when I get inside.  
  
“Enjoy your dip?” asks Marcus. The logs in the fireplace have been lit and the small room flickers with light. He raises his eyebrows as he takes in my appearance. I’ve stopped dead at the entrance, clutching my bundle of boots, clothing and toiletry bag close to my body. I raise it higher to cover my breasts and then hastily lower it again when I realise I’ve exposed my crotch. What a disaster!  
  
“It was cold,” I stammer.   
  
“Come by the fire and warm up then.” 

He moves aside to make room for me. It does look inviting. He and the fire both, actually. I’m uncertain about what I should do about my unclothed state. There’s nowhere to hide in this small, single-roomed house: no shadowy corner, no curtain or door. And it’s not like I can move without flashing my backside too. I hesitate for a few seconds, undecided, but then somewhat incongruously, a naked Johanna in an elevator comes to mind. What would Johanna do? She’d likely go stand naked by the fire as if it’s the most ordinary thing in the world. I recall that Marcus paid her no mind when she stripped in front of him. Female nakedness apparently doesn’t faze him. It’s no big deal then. He’s already seen everything anyway. And I do want to have sex with him. What message does it send if I can’t wait to cover up? So, I decide to do something completely not myself. I drop my things in a corner and go to stand beside him in front of the fire. If it’s possible to blush all over, then I accomplish it.   
  
To ease the tension, I blurt the first thing I think of. “I thought you said a fire in here would smoke us out.” That’s great, Katniss. Start an argument, why don’t you? You want to seduce him, not fight with him.  
  
“I was wrong,” he says mildly. “You know this place far better than I do. I should have taken my cue from you.”  
  
“Yes, you should. I mean should’ve. About the fire . . . and other things.” My eyes go to the sleeping mats, as close together as you can get them. Suddenly I have the jitters. It’s part excitement, part panic. What if he doesn’t want to have sex with me after all? I’m going to feel like the biggest fool.   
  
“I won’t make that mistake again.” He lays a hand against my back and trails it slowly downwards until it comes to rest on my hip. “Your skin feels hot. You shouldn’t stand so close.”  
  
I let out a nervous giggle. “I’m the girl on fire, remember? I love some heat.” Shit, I can’t believe I said that. It was so bad.   
  
“Where else you do like to feel hot?” The hand on my hip moves upwards, skimming my waist, and then over my ribs to cup my breast and lightly stroke the nipple. “Here?”

“Yeah,” I say weakly.   
  
Desire pools between my legs and I forget about being nervous. I just want him to keep doing what he’s doing.   
  
He turns me towards him and both arms go around me. He dips his head to trail open kisses along the side of my neck. “Here?”   
  
“Mm.” I clutch at his back to help me stay upright. My legs seem to have trouble supporting me.   
  
“And here?” He takes each nipple in his mouth by turn, nibbling gently. And then he kisses me, slowly and sensuously like we all the time in the world.  
  
“Bedroom,” I whisper into his ear. But before we take the half-dozen steps to our sleeping mats, there’s something I have to tell him.   
  
“I haven’t done this before,” I confess. I don’t want him to think I do this kind of thing every day.  
  
“I know.”  
  
“How?” I pull back, prepared to be affronted. Was my seduction technique so bad? As far as he knows, Peeta and I had been lovers. We were going to have baby!  
  
He stops my mouth with another kiss. “I just do.”


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is influenced by "Lost Boy" also by Ronja. It's a short side story of "The Chance You Didn't Take" told from Peeta's point of view about his relationships with Katniss and Lace. 
> 
> Thanks very much for reading and for your comments.

When I wake, I have a delicious feeling of happiness that is somehow connected with Marcus. My lips curl into a soft smile and I stretch out my limbs like Buttercup when he awakens from a nap. I haven’t slept so well in such a long time. Not since . . . no, don’t go there, not even for a second. So, was it the human closeness and the luxury of being enveloped in his warmth that made the difference? Or the strong and steady beat of his heart against my ear where I rested my head? Or the soothing patter of rain against the roof during the night? But if I have to choose one thing above all else, then I choose the sex. No, not sex. That’s too dispassionate a word for what happened last night. Love-making is better. Wonderful, magical, transporting. A revelation!   
  
My hand drifts down to between my legs almost on its own volition and I lightly stroke the sensitive little bud that Marcus gave so much attention to last night with his fingers and tongue. Oh, his tongue! Teasing, stroking, elevating me to heights I hadn’t thought possible. And then knowing exactly when to satisfy that dull hollow ache inside that if there was any pain, it was instantly overshadowed by waves of such pure pleasure that it seemed to engulf my entire being. Like now . . .oh . . .oh –   
  
My focus is broken by the sound of footsteps and the clink of metal against metal from outside the house. Marcus must be preparing breakfast. I try to recreate the moment, half hoping that he’ll walk in and take over, but it’s gone. I might as well get up. I grab the first item of clothing within reach. It’s Marcus’s T-shirt still lying crumpled on the floor where he had dropped it. It smells deliciously like him – fresh and outdoorsy with the faint scent of coconut from the sunscreen he uses. Over that goes my father’s hunting jacket and then I slip my feet into my boots which are in the corner by the doorway.  


“Good morning,” he says, looking up from stirring something in a saucepan over the fire. “Awake at last.” He smiles at my appearance. “What’s that? The latest in District 12 fashion?”   
  
“Could be,” I say, giving an exaggerated twirl. I go to stand behind him and drape myself over his back, using curiosity over what’s in the saucepan as my excuse. “Hmm, porridge.”   
  
“You sound disappointed. What were you expecting? Sausages and bacon?”   
  
“I hoped.”   
  
He laughs. “Well, you’ll like this porridge. I added a special ingredient.”   
  
“Sex?” I ask hopefully. I take his earlobe in my mouth and gently suck on it.   
  
He reaches around to stroke my calf. “That’s for dessert. Now let me finish, so we can eat.”   
  
“Okay, Okay,” I say, standing upright. “I can take a hint. There’s something I have to attend to first anyway.”   
  
I’m headed in the direction of a copse of trees when I hear Marcus call after me.   
  
“Katniss, remember – “  
  
“Yes, I know. At least 200 feet,” I yell back. I won’t tell him I peed in the lake last night. What’s the big deal? Fish do it.   
  
The porridge is indeed delicious with a subtle flavor I don’t recognize.   
  
“Brandy,” Marcus tells me, as he adds honey to his.   
  
“Sounds like something Haymitch would do,” I say.   
  
“He wouldn’t approve at all,” he replies with a teasing smile. “The alcohol cooks out.”   
  
After breakfast, we head out for the walks Marcus had planned. He wasn’t joking when he said the walking would be easy with lots of time for leisure. We are finished by lunchtime.

While he sits propped against a tree writing up his notes, I go searching for katniss roots. I’ve had a craving for them ever since I thought of it. I wander around the edge of the lake until I find the familiar long-stemmed plants with arrow-shaped leaves. I can bake them as a side dish to go with our dinner tonight.   
  
Marcus is still working when I’m finished. With nothing else to do, I get my book from my pack and go join him. I do a lot more reading these days. I suppose that’s Marcus’s influence. He’s always suggesting this book or that book, and I’ve discovered I have a real liking for it. Or, at least, for the books Marcus recommends. But today I have trouble concentrating. Not with Marcus just a short distance away and with the memory of last night still fresh in my mind. Using my book as cover, I take the opportunity to surreptitiously observe him as he works. The way the sunlight filtering down through the trees accentuates the golden glints in his brown hair. His long legs, bare from the knee down, with well-defined calf muscles from hiking mountain trails. The little crease between his eyes as he translates ideas into writing.   
  
It’s strange how my feelings for him have changed in the space of a single day. It’s hard to say exactly why. Was it that thing again, that hunger that overtook me on the beach? That’s part of it. But there’s more to it than that. Maybe Marcus is what I need to survive now. Or maybe it would have happened anyway. Everything is so confused. But what I am certain of, is that this thing, whatever it is, has come exactly when I needed it. I’m just so lucky to have met him. I wondered if I could feel this way again about anyone after Peeta’s rejection of me. But here he is. The calm after the storm. A soft place to land. The oasis in the desert. He’s a wonder. Truly a miracle. It’s almost like Prim sent him to me. And here, in this special place, while it still belongs to me.   
  
I smile to myself as I think of last night and what we did. It was so romantic. The warm soft glow from the fire. The contrast between his fair skin, and my darker olive tones. How his hands roamed the curves and crevices of my body and left not an inch unexplored. How my limbs fell apart when he put his head there to gaze directly between them. I guess I should have been embarrassed by that, but somehow, I found it incredibly arousing. My hand drops to my lap and I lightly run a finger along the crotch seam of my trousers. Back and forth, the tension mounts. But it’s not nearly enough. I want more. 

If only he wasn’t so engrossed scribbling in that notebook of his. I know he has work to do and that’s why we’re here, but still. Can’t he see there are more important things to claim his attention? I look around for ways to distract him and my hand falls on a small rock. I suppose aiming it at his head won’t give me the result I’m looking for. And then my glance lands on the lake. It’s not really swimming weather and I recall how cold the water was last night. But maybe the sun has warmed it by now and it won’t be so bad.

Very quietly, I remove my boots and socks. Then my shirt and trousers and lastly my underwear. And then I casually sashay down to the water’s edge. 

“Care to join me for a swim?” I call out to him.   
  
“Maybe later,” he replies, not even glancing my way. He raises his head to continue, “I still have – “ He suddenly stops short and down goes his notebook and pen. 

“It will be cold,” he warns, but he’s already pulling off his boots.   
  
“They must breed them soft in the Capitol,” I scoff. “It’s hardly cold at all. More like a warm bath.”   
  
I wade in ankle-deep and come to a sudden halt. The water is a little warmer than last night, but not much. When my father taught me to swim here it was always later in the season. My own solo swims have been when the weather was warmer too. Suddenly that swim doesn’t seem such a good idea and I consider backing out. But then Marcus is beside me. “Come on then,” he says, giving me a pat on the behind. “It’s just a warm bath.”  
  
And then he races into the water and dives straight in. After a few moments, his head breaks the surface and then he turns around to face me. He’s grinning, challenging me.   
  
I grit my teeth and will myself to enter the water. Knees, thighs, hips, waist. I hesitate when it comes time to immerse the rest of me, although I know that once my body becomes used to the cold, it won’t be so bad. Come on, Everdeen, you’ve been in two Games and a war. This is nothing by comparison. And with that thought in mind, I dive beneath the surface, holding my breath until I see two pale human legs. I come up just in front of him, gasping for breath. Which I have to wait for a few seconds longer as my lips are claimed in a kiss.   
  
“See,” I say, with chattering teeth, “it’s not cold at all.”  
  
“Almost tropical,” he replies. “Want to get out now?”  
  
“Yes.”   
  
We clamor onto the bank and sink down onto soft grass. We’ve nothing on hand to dry ourselves but the sun is warm against our chilled skin. Marcus rubs his hands up and down my arms. It’s not doing much to warm me up but I like him touching me.   
  
“In a few weeks, the water should be tolerable. For most people, anyway” he adds, with an infuriating grin. 

I go to punch his arm but he grabs my fist and kisses it. And then I’m pulled down onto the ground and we lay on our sides, kissing. Slow, lazy kisses. Too slow and lazy for my liking though. I comb my fingers through his hair and pull his head forward to deepen the kiss and increase the pace but he continues to kiss me in a leisurely fashion; one hand caresses my bottom, fingertips lightly stroking the cleft, but otherwise doing nothing. I know he’s aroused because his erection is hard against my stomach and I press into it. But still nothing. Just kissing and those maddening teasing fingers. I’m getting more than a little frustrated. It’s time to take matters into my own hands then. Literally.  
  
I break the kiss and push him onto his back. The part of him that interests me most stands hard and upright in a nest of hair the same golden-brown hue as the hair on his head. I didn’t really pay close attention to it last night, other than how it felt against my body or when it was moving inside me. It seems very large even though I’ve nothing to compare it to. It’s the first erect one I’ve seen in my life. And thick too. I wrap my hand around it and lightly tug on it. He seems to like it because he moans softly and when I look at his face, his eyes are hooded. 

“Tighter,” he says. Okay then. I don’t see how this could be good but I increase my grip and tug some more. “That’s right,” he says, encouragingly, “keep going.” I do as he says but my wrist starts to tire so I decided to do something different. I put out my tongue and lick the tip. A louder groan this time. Keeping my grip tight, I take more of him into my mouth and swirl my tongue around. His hips buck so I keep on doing it. I’m concentrating on the task so much, that when his fingers slide between my lower lips it takes me by surprise. Soon we’re both moaning.   
  
“Katniss, now,” he grunts. I climb on top and, with his help, lower myself until he’s all the way inside. It feels so good and at first, I raise and lower my hips in imitation of our lovemaking last night, but I soon realise it doesn’t work so well in this position.   
  
“Try grinding your clit against me,” he says.   
  
“What’s that?’ I ask, confused.   
  
“Here.” He uses his thumb to draw tiny circles at the top of my slit. Oh. Waves of pleasure wash over me and I feel my insides clamp around him. If he’d just keep doing it.   
  
“Now you do it.” He takes his hand away and rests it on my hip. “I want to watch.”

“What?” Touch myself? In front of him? “I don’t think – “

“Do it. Please.” The molten look in his eyes is all that’s needed to convince me.

I insert my fingertips close to where our bodies are joined and I gently rub where I’m most sensitive, just beneath – what is it called? – my clit? The sensation builds and I close my eyes.   
  
“Look at me,” he commands, his fingers dig into the globes of my behind, snapping me back to attention. His gaze is fixed on mine. I stare back, almost hypnotized by the intensity in those remarkable eyes of his. I’m reminded of a mountain lion, watchful, quietly appraising the best strategy for attack and, for the first time in my life, I’m happy to be the prey. He can do whatever he wants with me. “Lean forward.” I do as he says. “Now rotate your hips, like this.” His hands guide them in a circular motion. “Do what feels good.”   
  
The forward posture brings my clit into contact with his pubic bone and I grind and gyrate against it. It feels amazing, and when his hands leave my hips to cup my breasts, his thumbs stroking my nipples, it sends me toppling over, in great convulsing waves. He follows me seconds later, his hips jerking up into mine.

He pulls me down for a kiss before I climb off him and lay by his side, his arm around my shoulders. We don’t say anything, just lie in the sun with the sounds of nature around us. A gentle breeze fans our skin. 

Beneath half-closed lids, I look down on that part of him that had just been inside me. Not hard and upright anymore, but soft and limp against his lower belly, and sticky from our combined secretions. I can’t help but think how Marcus’s bookish-outdoorsy persona is somehow at odds with his expertise as a lover. He knows his way around a woman’s body, that’s for certain. Even now, when I’d taken control, it was really him, guiding me, teaching me, even. He’s evidently had a lot of experience and I feel a little jealous of these women he’s had experience with, although it’s hardly reasonable. He’s quite old. Twenty-seven, he once told me. But it seems I’m always behind and catching up when it comes to romance and this sort of thing.   
  
“I suppose people start really young in the Capitol,” I say, as casually as I can. “With sex, I mean.”  
  
I feel Marcus’s head turn to scrutinize my face. I lower my chin and concentrate on ruffling the hair on his chest.

  
“It depends on what you mean by young,” he answers carefully. “We usually don’t wait until marriage, if that’s what you mean. Why do you ask?”  
  
“I was just curious. It just seems . . . well, that you know a lot.”  
  
“I’m not sure about “a lot”. Anyone with even a little knowledge can seem wise to someone with none. But I guess I’ve had my share of girlfriends. None that lasted for very long though. They always seem to break it off.”   
  


“How come?” I can’t imagine why any girl lucky enough to be with Marcus would want to leave, ever.   
  
The shoulder beneath my head raises in a shrug. “They say I don’t pay them enough attention, that I put too much time and focus into other things. The last one told me that what I really need is a female version of myself and good luck finding one. “   
  
His tone is light as if it doesn’t worry him unduly. I think what this former girlfriend was getting at is that he needs someone with the same sense of purpose and who shares his goals. Maybe someone like me. I smile and snuggle in closer.   
  
“So, what was it like growing up in the Districts with all those _standards_?” he asks, doing a pretty good imitation of Lace.   
  
I snort with laughter, but then turn serious to consider his question. It’s not as easy to answer as you might think. With my focus on survival and my determination to never have a boyfriend, I had little idea of what my peers were doing, other than flirtations across the schoolyard, and occasionally coming across a couple furtively kissing behind the shelter sheds.   
  


“I guess it varied and I can only speak for 12,” I say eventually. “But the Head Peacekeeper would pay women to sleep with him. Some of them were very young, barely into their teens. But for them, it was either sell yourself or starve.” I still shudder to think that I might have suffered the same fate if I hadn’t been a little older when my father died. I was desperate enough. But it was the woods and the hunting and foraging skills he’d taught me that saved us. And two burnt loaves . . .   
  


For a moment I’m unable to go on. All of a sudden, I’m taken from the safe space I’ve been inhabiting and plunged straight back into the situation awaiting me at home. Peeta . . .  
  
Marcus seems to sense something is amiss because his arm tightens around me and I feel a kiss pressed to the top of my head. “That’s terrible,” he says. “Peacekeepers were supposed to protect the populace, not exploit them.”   
  
I nod against this chest, even though without Cray’s custom it would have been far worse for those girls. And then there was Thread. Marcus is still very naïve about how things were in the Districts.

“But generally, most of us waited for marriage. And that was usually as soon as we aged out of the reaping. You really couldn’t risk pregnancy before that, and there was no reliable birth control. Maybe they did other things though, I don’t know.” Gale, probably. Peeta, doubtful. “So, I guess if we had standards, it was really about what’s practical. No one, not even if you were Merchant, could afford extra mouths to feed and if you got pregnant, you got married, even if you didn’t want to. It was a powerful deterrent. “ 

“I can imagine. So, your marriage to Peeta would have been against the social norms?”   
  
“Um, yes and no. If we hadn’t already been in the Games and it was before we had aged out of the reapings, yes. But, you see, we didn’t expect that we’d be reaped a second time. It was all a sham anyway, to convince everyone the romance was real and get Snow off our back.” I work hard at keeping my voice neutral. Peeta is the last thing I want to talk about.   
  
“And the pregnancy a ruse to gain public sympathy?”   
  
I just nod. His chest hair has never been paid so much attention. I know I don’t have to hide my feelings for Peeta around him. But this is about me, and what I want from my life. And it’s not pining over a man I can’t have.   
  
I rise up on one elbow and twist my body so that I that I’m leaning over him, and peer into his face. It’s kind and sensitive, a little weathered from his love of the outdoors, but handsome by any standard. I remember something Haymitch said a lifetime ago. “You could do a lot worse.” He was talking about Peeta, that I should give him a chance. Well, Peeta belongs to another now. My destiny no longer lies with him. Maybe I should heed Arthur’s advice for Celia. “Be adaptable. Be open to possibilities.”” And Marcus is a definite possibility.  
  
I take his face between my hands and give him a long kiss. His arms wrap around my waist to clasp me to him. “We should get out of the sun now, or at least put some clothes on,” I tell him when the kiss eventually ends. “Can’t risk getting sunburnt, not when we have another night here to go.”   
  
Marcus laughs and reaches out to push a stray lock of hair away from my face and tuck it behind my ear. “What have I unleashed?”   
  
“You’ll find out,” I say, giving him an arch look. And, I guess, so will I.   
  



End file.
